
Book 'NS" 



LITERARY REMAINS 



OF THE LATE 



HENRY NEELE. 



LONDON: 

W. MARCHANT, PRINTER, INGRAM-COURT. 




.I'c/^ scidp} 




XonJcn Futlirhtil hy S^th Sldrr & C9 65 Ccmhill ItTovr 25?' 18SB. 



LECTURES 



ENGLISH POETRY; 

FROM THE REIGN OF EDWARD THE THIRD, TO THE TIME OF BURNS 
AND COWPER, DELIVERED AT THE RUSSELL INSTITUTION, IN 1827 : 

WITH 

MISCELLANEOUS TALES AND POEMS ; 

BEING THE 

LITERARY REMAINS 

OF THE LATE 

HENRY NEELE, 

AUTHOR OF THE " ROxMANCE OF HISTORY," ETC. ETC. 



Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
A deathless part of him who died too soon. 

Lord Byron's Monody on Sheridan. 



ECOND EDITION. 



LONDON: 'Oj 

SMITH, ELDER, AND CO. QS, CORNHILL. 

1830. 







\ 



^^ >^ 




INTRODUCTION 



The present Volume, like almost every other 
posthumous publication, has to solicit it's Readers' 
indulgence towards those unavoidable inaccuracies, 
for which he who alone could have corrected them, 
is no longer responsible. The hand that traced 
the following pages now moulders in the grave; 
the wreath which should have garlanded the Poet's 
brow, is now twined around his sepulchre ; and 
the chaplet of his living fame 

" Is hung upon his Hearse, to droop and wither there ! " 

To the last work which will bear the name, of 
Henry Neele upon it's Title-page, it becomes 



VI INTRODUCTION. 

an act of duty to prefix some few particulars of 
his writings, and of their Author : and though 
this tribute to the departed comes late and un- 
availing; though, like the custom of placing 
flowers in the cold hands of the dead, Praise now 
but wastes it's sweetness upon ears which can no 
longer listen to it's melody; still, to give per- 
petuity to the memory of Genius is one of the 
most grateful offices of humanity ; nor does man 
ever seem more deserving of immortality himself, 
than when he is thus endeavouring to confer it 
worthily upon others. 

The late Henry Neele was the second Son of a 
highly respectable map and heraldic Engraver in 
the Strand, where he was born January 29th, 
1798 ; and upon his Father removing to Kentish 
Town, was there sent to School, as a daily 
boarder, and continued at the same Seminary until 
his education was completed. At this Academy, 
though he became an excellent French scholar, 
yet he acquired ** little Latin, and less Greek ;" 
and, in fact, displayed no very devoted applica- 
tion to, or even talent for, study of any sort : with 
the exception of Poetry ; for which he thus early 



INTRODUCTION. vil 

evinced his decided inclination, and produced 
several specimens of extraordinary beauty, for so 
juvenile a writer. Henry Neele's inattention at 
School was, however, amply redeemed by his un- 
assisted exertions when he better knew the value 
of those attainments which he had neglected ; and 
he subsequently added a general knowledge of 
German and Italian, to the other languages in which 
he became a proficient. Having made choice of 
the profession of the Law, he was, upon leaving 
School, articled to a respectable Attorney; and, 
after the usual period of probationary experience, 
was admitted to practice, and commenced busi- 
ness as a Solicitor. 

It was during the progress of his clerkship, in 
January, 1817, that Henry Neele made his first 
appearance as an Author, by publishing a Volume 
of Poems; the expenses of which were kindly 
defrayed by his Father: who had the judgment to 
perceive, and the good taste to appreciate and en- 
courage, the dawning genius of his Son. Though 
this work displayed evident marks of youth and 
inexperience, yet it was still more decidedly cha- 
racterised by a depth of thought and feeling, and 



Vlll INTRODUCTION. 

an elegance and fluency of versification, which 
gave the surest promises of future excellence. 
It's contents were principally Lyrical, and the ill- 
fated Collins was, avowedly, his chief model. The 
publication of this Volume introduced the young 
Poet to Dr. Nathan Drake, Author of " Literary 
Hours,'" &c., who, though acquainted with him 
" only through the medium of his writings," de- 
voted a Chapter of his " Winter Nights" to a 
critical examination and eulogy of these Poems ; 
" of which," says the Doctor, " the merit strikes 
me as being so considerable, as to justify the notice 
and the praise which I feel gratified in having 
an opportunity of bestowing upon them." And in 
a subsequent paragraph, he observes, that, " when 
beheld as the very firstlings of his earliest years, 
they cannot but be deemed very extraordinary 
effbrts indeed, both of taste and genius ; and as 
conferring no slight celebrity on the Author, as 
the name next to be pronounced, perhaps, after 
those of Chatterton and Kirke White." 

The duties and responsibility of active life, how- 
ever, necessarily withdrew much of his attention 
from writing : yet though his professional avoca- 



INTRODUCTION. IX 

tions were ever the objects of his first regard, he 
still found frequent leisure to devote to composi- 
tion. In July, 1820, Mr. Neele printed a new 
Edition of his Odes, &c., with considerable addi- 
tions ; and in March, 1823, published a Second 
Volume of Dramatic and Miscellaneous Poetry, 
which was, by permission, dedicated to Miss Joanna 
Baillie, and at once established it's Author's claims 
to no mean rank amongst the most popular writers 
of the day. The minor Poems, more especially 
the Songs and Fragments, were truly beautiful 
specimens of the grace and sweetness of his genius ; 
and amply merited the very general approval with 
which they were received. 

Ardent and enthusiastic in all his undertakings, 
Mr. Neele's Literary industry was now amply 
evidenced by his frequent contributions to the 
'' Monthly Magazine, ^^ and other Periodicals ; as 
well as to the " Forget Me Not,'' and several of 
it's contemporary Annuals ; the numerous Tales 
and Poems for which, not previously reprinted by 
himself, are all included in the present Volume. 
Having been long engaged in studying the Poets 
of the olden time, particularly the great masters 
of the Drama of the age of Queen Elizabeth, for 

a3 



X INTRODUCTION. 

all of whom, but more especially for Shakspeare, 
he felt the most enthusiastic veneration, he was 
well qualified for the composition of a series of 
" Lectures on English Poetry ^^^ from the days of 
Chaucer down to those of Cowper, which he com- 
pleted in the Winter of 1826 ; and delivered, first 
at the Russell, and subsequently at the Western 
Literary, Institution, in the Spring of 1827. 
These Lectures were most decidedly successful ; 
and both public and private opinion coincided in 
describing them as " displaying a high tone of 
Poetical feeling in the Lecturer, and an intimate 
acquaintance with the beauties and blemishes of 
the great subjects of his criticism." Although 
written with rapidity, and apparent carelessness, 
they were yet copious, discriminative, and elo- 
quent; abounding in well-selected illustration, and 
inculcating the purest taste. From the original 
Manuscripts these compositions are now first pub- 
lished ; and deeply is it to be deplored, that the 
duty of preparing them for the Press should have 
devolved upon any one but their Author : since in 
that case alone, could the plan which he had evi- 
dently proposed to himself have been fully com- 
pleted ; and where, in many instances, his intentions 
can now but be conjectured only, from the traces 



INTRODUCTION. XI 

of his outline, his design would then have been 
filled up to it*s entire extent, and harmonized in 
all it's proportions of light and shadow. 

In the early part of 1827 Mr. Neele published 
a new Edition of all his Poems, collected into two 
Volumes; and in the course of the same year pro- 
duced his last and greatest Work, the " Romance 
of English History ^ which was dedicated, by per- 
mission, to His Majesty; and though extending 
to three Volumes, and, from it's very nature, re- 
quiring much antiquarian research, was completed 
in little more than six months. Flattering as was 
the very general eulogium which attended this 
publication, yet the voice of praise was mingled 
with the warnings of approaching evil ; and, like 
the lightning which melts the sword within it's 
scabbard, it is but too certain that the incessant 
labour and anxiety of mind attending it's com.ple- 
tion, were the chief sources of that fearful malady 
which so speedily destroyed him. 



" 'Twas his own genius gave the final blow. 
And help'd to plant the wound that laid him low ; — 
So the struck Eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 



Xll INTRODUCTION. 

Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, 
Which wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart I 
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel 
He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel ; 
While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest, 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast!" 

Of the work itself, which comprises a series of 
Tales, founded on some Romantic occurrences in 
every reign, from the Conquest to the Reforma- 
tion, it is difl&cult to speak accurately. The sub- 
ject, excepting in it's general outlines, was one to 
which Mr. Neele was confessedly a stranger; and 
as he had to search for his materials through the 
obscure Chronicles of dry antiquity, and actually 
to " read up" for the illustration of each succeed- 
ing narrative, his exertions must have been equally 
toilsome and oppressive ; and the instances of haste 
and inaccuracy, which, it is to be regretted, are 
of such very frequent occurrence, are thus but too 
readily accounted for. On the other hand, the 
Tales are, in general, deeply interesting and ef- 
fective ; the leading historical personages all cha- 
racteristically distinguished ; and the dialogue, 
though seldom sufficiently antique for the perfect 
vraisemhlance of History, is lively and animated. 
The illustrations of each reign are preceded by a 



INTRODUCTION. XIH 

brief chronological summary of it's principal events; 
and amusement and information are thus most hap- 
pily and inseparably united. 

The " Romance of History" was very speedily 
reprinted in a Second Edition, and one Tale, 
" Blanche of Bourbon" (inserted at page 254 
of this Volume,) was written for it's continuation ; 
as Mr. Neele would most probably have prepared 
another series ; though it was the Publisher's ori- 
ginal intention that each Country should be illus- 
trated by a different Author. 

With the mention of a new edition of Shaks- 
peare's Plays, under the superintendence of Mr. 
Neele as Editor^ for which his enthusiastic reve- 
rence for the Poet of *' all time," peculiarly fitted 
him, but which, from the want of patronage, ter- 
minated after the publication of a very few Num- 
bers, closes the record of his Literary labours, and 
hastens the narration of that ** last scene of all," 
which laid him in an untimely grave. All the 
fearful details of that sad event it were too painful 
to dwell upon ; and if the curtain of oblivion even 
for a moment be removed, it is to weep over them 
in silence, and close it again for ever. Henry 



XIV INTRODUCTION. 

Neele fell by his own hand ; the victim of an over- 
wrought imagination : — 

" Like a tree, 
That, with the weight of it's own golden fruitage, 
Is bent down to the dust." 

On the morning of Thursday, February 7th, 
1828, when he had scarcely passed his thirtieth 
birth-day, he was found dead in his bed, with but 
too positive evidences of self-destruction. The 
unhesitating verdict of the Coroner's Inquest was 
Insanity, as he had exhibited most unquestionable 
symptoms of derangement on the day preceding. 
And thus, in the very Spring of life, with Fame 
and Fortune opening their brightest views before 
him, he perished under the attacks of a disease, 
from which no genius is a defence, and no talent 
a protection; which has numbered amongst it's 
victims some of the loftiest Spirits of humanity, 
and blighted the proudest hopes that ever waked 
the aspirings of ambition. — 

" Breasts, to whom all the strength of feeling given, 
Bear hearts electric, charged with fire from Heaven, 
Black with the rude collision, inly torn, 
By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne. 



INTRODUCTION. XV 

Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst 

Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder, scorch and burst ! '' 



In person, Mr. Neele was considerably below 
the middle stature; but bis features were singularly 
expressive, and bis brilliant eyes betokened ardent 
feeling and vivid imagination. Happily, as it has 
now proved, though his disposition was in the 
highest degree kind, sociable, and affectionate, he 
was not married. His short life passed, indeed, 
almost without events ; it was one of those obscure 
and humble streams which have scarcely a name in 
the map of existence, and which the traveller passes 
by without enquiring either it's source or it's direc- 
tion. His retiring manners kept him comparatively 
unnoticed and unknown, excepting by those with 
whom he was most intimate ; and from their 
grateful recollection his memory will never be 
effaced. He was an excellent son ; a tender 
brother ; and a sincere friend. He was beloved 
most by those who knew him best ; and at his 
death, left not one enemy in the world. 

Of his varied talents this posthumous Volume will 
afford the best possible estimate ; since it includes 
specimens of nearly every kind of composition 



XVI INTRODUCTION. 

which Mr. Neele ever attempted. The Lectures 
will amply evidence the nervous eloquence of his 
Prose ; and the grace and tenderness of his Poetry 
are instanced in almost every stanza of his Verse. 
Still, with a mind and manners so peculiarly 
amiable, and with a gaiety of heart, and playful- 
ness of wit, which never failed to rouse the spirit 
of mirth in whatever society he found himself, it 
is, indeed, difficult to account for the morbid 
sensibility and bitter discontent, which characterize 
so many of his Poems ; and which were so strongly 
expressed in a contribution to the " Forget Me 
Not" for 1826, (vide page 514 of these '' Re- 
mains" J that the able Editor, his friend, Mr. 
Shoberl, considered it his duty to counteract it's 
influence by a " Remonstrance,'^ which was in- 
serted immediately after it. This is a problem, 
however, which it is now impossible to solve ; 
and, with a brief notice of the present work, this 
Introduction will, therefore, at once be closed. 

The following pages contain all the unpublished 
Manuscripts left with Mr. Neele's family ; as well 
as most of those Miscellaneous Pieces which were 
scattered, very many of them anonymously, through 
various Periodicals, several of which are now 



INTRODUCTION. XVU 

discontinued ; though the Tales and Poems alluded 
to were never printed in any former collection 
of his writings. From the facility with which 
Mr. Neele wrote, the ready kindness with which 
he complied with almost every entreaty, and his 
carelessness in keeping copies, it is, however, 
highly probable, that numerous minor Poems may 
yet remain in obscurity. It would, indeed, have 
been easy to have extended the present Volume, 
even very far beyond it's designed limits, but the 
failure of more than one similar attempt was a 
caution to warn from the quicksand on which they 
were wrecked : and to contract, rather than to ex- 
tend, the boundaries previously prescribed. The 
Satire of the Reverend Author of ** Walks in a 
Forest" has, unluckily for it's objects, been but 
too frequently deserved : — 

*^ When Genius dies, 
I speak what Albion knows, surviving friends. 
Eager his bright perfections to display 
To the last atom, echo through the land 
All that he ever did, or ever said, 
Or ever thought: — 

Then for his writings, search each desk and drawer. 
Sweep his Portfolio, publish every scrap, 
And demi-scrap he penn'd ; beg, borrow, steal, 
Each line he scribbled, letter, note, or card. 



XVUl INTRODUCTION. 

To order shoes, to countermand a hat, 

To make enquiries of a neighbour's cold, 

Or ask his company to supper. Thus, 

Fools! with such vile and crumbling trash they build 

The pedestal, on which at length they rear 

Their Luge Colossus, that, beneath his weight, 

'Tis crush'd and ground ; and leaves him dropt aslant. 

Scarce raised above the height of common men V* 

Here, then, this Introduction terminates. To 
those who loved him living, and who mourn him 
dead, these Remains of Henry Neele are dedi- 
cated ; in the assured conviction that his Genius 
will long " leave a mark behind," and not without 
a hope that even this slight Memorial will servo 

" To pluck the shining page from vulgar Time, 
And leave it whole to late Posterity." 

J.T. 

November 20th, 1828. 



ADVERTISEMENT 

TO 

THE SECOND EDITION. 



The only notice requisite to introduce this 
Second Edition, is the expression of the Editor's 
most unqualified gratification at the highly flat- 
tering reception of the First ; and his very sincere 
acknowledgments for the truly unanimous ap- 
proval, with which it was honoured by every criti- 
cism. To the friends of it's lamented Author, such 
posthumous praise cannot but be doubly welcome ; 
and in this last memorial of a career so brilliant, 
though so brief, they must thus enjoy both a record 
and a consolation, never to pass away : — 

" Long, long be each heart with such memories fill'd ! 
Like a Vase in which roses have once been distill'd ; — 
You may break, you may ruin the Vase, if you will, 
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still." 

J. T. 

December 7th, 1829. 



CONTENTS. 



Introduction Page v 

Advertisement to the Second Edition xix 

LECTURES ON ENGLISH POETRY. 

Lecture the First, Introductory Analysis 3 

Second, Epic and Narrative Poetry 41 

Third, Dramatic Poetry 78 

Fourth, Dramatic Poetry continued 126 

Fifth, Didactic, Descriptive, Pastoral, and 

Satirical Poetry 159 

Sixth, Lyrical and Miscellaneous Poetry. . .. 187 

ORIGINAL TALES, POEMS, ETC. 

The Garter, a Romance of English History 219 

Blanche of Bourbon, a Romance of Spanish History .... 254 

Shakspeare's Supernatural Characters 301 

A Night at the Mermaid, an Old English Tale 310 

TheTrekschuit 321 



XXll CONTENTS. 

Hymns for Children Page 330 

Epitaphs 334 

Sonnet on reading the Remains of the late Henry 

Kirke White 335 

Friendship 336 

Love and Beauty r . . . 337 

AThought 340 

Epigram 340 

MISCELLANEOUS PROSE AND POETRY, NOW 
FIRST COLLECTED. 

The Valley of Servoz, a Savoyard Tale 343 

The Poet's Dream 357 

Totteridge Priory, a Reverie in Hertfordshire 384 

The Shakspearean Elysium 394 

The Dinner of the Months , 404 

Every Day at Breakfast 412 

A Young Family 422 

The Comet 432 

The Magician's Visiter 468 

The Houri, a Persian Tale 478 

Stanzas 495 

Lines written after visiting a Scene in Switzerland .,*... 496 

The Crusaders' Song . , , 498 

A Serenade 500 



CONTENTS. XXUl 

Similitudes Page 502 

The Return of the Golden Age 503 

Questions Answered 504 

Time's Changes 506 

Such Things were 508 

The Heart 5 10 

Madonna , 511 

Song 512 

Stanzas 514 

Thoughts 515 

The Comet 516 

Stanzas 518 

WhatisLife? 519 

Time 521 

Love and Sorrow 523 

The Natal Star, a Dramatic Sketch 524 

L'Amore Dominatore , 529 

Goodrich Castle 530 

The Captives' Song 532 

Stanzas 534 

Mount Carmel, a Dramatic Sketch from Scripture History 536 
A Royal Requiem 543 



To develope the dawnings of Genius, and to pursue the pro- 
gress of our own National Poetry, from a rude origin and 
obscure beginnings, to it's perfection in a polished age, must 
prove an interesting and instructive investigation. 

T. Warton. 

Authentic History informs us of no time when Poetry was 
not ; and if the Divine Art has sometimes sung it's own na- 
tivity, it is in strains which confess, while they glorify igno- 
rance. The Sacred Annals are silent, and the Heathens, by 
referring the invention of Verse to the Gods, do but tell us 
that the mortal inventor was unknown. 

" Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine," November, 1828. 



LECTURES 

ON 

ENGLISH POETRY. 

DELIVERED AT THE RUSSELL INSTITUTION, IN 

THE MONTHS OF MARCH, APRIL, 

AND MAY, 1827. 



B ..'. 



Hai^ Bards triumphant ! born in happier days! 
Immortal heirs of universal praise 1 
Whose honours with increase of ages grow, 
As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow ; 
Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound, 
And Worlds applaud that must not yet be found. 

Pope. 



LECTURES 



ENGLISH POETRY 



LECTURE THE FIRST. 



INTRODUCTORY ANALYSIS. 

General Historical Summary : — The Age of Edward the Third : 
— Chaucer : — The Ages of Henry the Eighth and Eliza- 
beth: — Coincidences in the Literary Histories of England 
and Spain : — The Age of Charles the First : — Milton : — 
The New School of Comedy : — The Age of Queen 
Anne : — Compared with the Age of Elizabeth : — The 
Didactic Writers : — Improvement in the Public Taste: — 
IModern Authors to the time of Cowper. 



It may appear somewhat presumptuous to hope to 
interest your attention, by a series of Lectures 
upon English Poetry, after the power and abiUty 

b2 



4 LECTURES ON 

with which the Mechanical and useful Arts have 
so recently been discussed and explained, on the 
same spot, and the wonders and mysteries of those 
Sciences laid open, which contribute so much to 
the happiness, the comforts, and even the neces- 
sities, of ordinary life. In introducing Poetry to 
your notice, I am constrained to confess that it is 
a mere superfluity and ornament. As Falstaff 
said of Honour, " it cannot set to a leg, or an 
arm, or heal the grief of a wound ; it has no skill 
in Surgery." Still, within the mind of man there 
exists a craving after intellectual beauty and 
sublimity. There is a mental appetite, which it is 
as necessary to satisfy as the corporeal one. There 
are maladies of the mind, which are even more 
destructive than those of the body ; and which, as 
the sound of the sweet Harp of David drove the 
demon out of Saul, have been known to yield to 
the soothing influence of Poetry. The earliest 
accomplishment of the rudest and wildest stages of 
society, it is also the crowning grace of the most 
polished and civilized. Nations the most illustrious 
in Arts and arms, have also been the most celebra- 
ted for their cultivation of letters ; and when the 
monuments of those Arts, and the achievements of 
those arms, have passed away from the face of the 
earth, they have transmitted their fame to the 



ENGLISH POETRY. 5 

remotest ages throagh the medium of Literature 
alone. The geuius of Timanthes lives but in 
the pages of Pliny ; and the sword of Caesar has 
been rendered immortal only by his pen. 

The canvas fritters into shreds, and the column 
moulders into ruin ; the voice of Music is mute ; 
and the beautiful expression of Sculpture a blank 
and gloomy void : the right hand of the Mechanist 
forgets it's cunning, and the arm of the Warrior 
becomes powerless in the grave ; but the Lyre of 
the Poet still vibrates ; ages listen to his song and 
honour it : and while the pencil of Apelles, and 
the chisel of Phidias, and the sword of Caesar, 
and the engines of Archimedes, live only in the 
breath of tradition, or on the page of history, or 
in some perishable and imperfect fragment ; the 
pen of Homer, or of Virgil, or of Shakspeare, is 
an instrument of power, as mighty and magical as 
when first the gifted finger of the Poet grasped it, 
and with it traced those characters which shall re- 
main unobliterated, until the period when this great 
globe itself, — 

** And all which it inherit, shall dissolve, 
And, like an insubstantial Pageant faded, 
Leave not a rack behind \" 

The history of the Poetry of England exhibits 



b LECTURES ON 

changes and revolutions not less numerous and re- 
markable than that of it's politics ; and to a brief 
general summary of these, I propose to confine 
myself in this Introductory Lecture. I shall after- 
wards take a more detailed review of the merits 
of the individual Authors, who distinguished them- 
selves at various periods ; and in drawing your at- 
tention to particular passages in their works, I 
shall select from such writers as are least exten- 
sively known. 

English Poetry may be said to have been born in 
the reign of Edward the Third. The Monkish 
rhymes, the Troubadour Poems, the Metrical 
Romances of Thomas the Rhymer, Piers Plow- 
man, and others, and the clumsy Translations 
from the Latin and the French, which were pro- 
duced prior to that period, have but slender 
claims upon our attention ; except as affording, by 
their dulness and their gloom, a contrast to the ex- 
traordinary blaze of light which succeeded them, 
when Chaucer appeared in the Poetical hemisphere. 
At that period, the eyes of all Europe were turned 
towards England, who, perhaps, never in any age 
more highly distinguished herself. She then pro- 
duced a Monarch who was the greatest Statesman 
and Warrior of his age, and to whom we are in- 
debted for the foundation of many of the most im- 



ENGLISH POETRY. 7 

portant of the free Institutions, under which we 
now flourish ; she produced a Divine, who had 
the boldness to defy the spiritual and temporal 
authority of Rome, and who struck the first blow 
at that colossal power, — a blow, from the effects 
of which we may say that she has never yet re- 
covered ; and now she produced a Poet, of whom 
it is scarcely too much to assert, that he was the 
greatest who had then appeared in modern Eu- 
rope. 

Chaucer's genius was vast, versatile, and ori- 
ginal. He seems to have been deeply versed in 
classical, in French, and in Italian Literature, as 
well as in the Sciences, so far as they were known 
in his day, and in the polemical and theological 
questions which were then the favourite and 
fashionable studies. His knowledge of human na- 
ture was profound. The Knights, the Monks, 
the Reves, the Prioresses, which he has painted, 
have long since disappeared ; but wherever we 
look around, we recognise the same passions, and 
feelings, and characters ; the features remain, al- 
though the costume is altered; manners vary, but 
man remains the same : Human nature, however 
changeable in fashion, opinion, and outward ap- 
pearance, is immutable in it's essence. Such as 
is the Monarch on his throne, such is the peasant 



a LECTURES ON 

in his cottage ; such as was the ancient Egyp- 
tian wandering among the Pyramids, such is the 
modern Englishman making the tour of Europe, 
and the Poet, who " dips"- — as Garrick said of 
Shakspeare,-^** his pencil in the human heart," 
will produce forms and colours, the truth and beauty 
of which will be recognised, wherever such a heart 
beats. Chaucer's versatility was most extraordi- 
nary. No English Poet, Shakspeare alone excepted, 
exhibits such striking instances of Comic and Tragic 
powers^ united in the same mind. His humour 
and wit are of the brightest and keenest character; 
but then his pathos is tremendous, and his de- 
scriptive powers are of the highest order. 

His diction and versification must be looked at 
with reference to the age in which he lived, and 
not to the splendid models which we now possess. 
He has been much censured by modern critics for 
a too liberal use of French and Norman words in 
his Poems ; but Mr. Tyrwhitt, in his learned dis- 
sertation on the subject, has shewn most satisfac- 
torily, that, as compared with his contemporaries, 
his diction is remarkably pure and vernacular ; and 
Spenser, has emphatically called him " a well of 
English undefiled." His verses have also been said 
to be imperfect, and sometimes to consist of nine 
syllables^ instead of ten. This is^ I think, an equally 



ENGLISH POETRY. 9 

unfounded accusation ; and, if the Reader will 
only take the precaution to make vocal the e final, 
whenever he meets with it, he will find few lines 
in Chaucer which are not harmonious and satisfac- 
tory to the ear. 

I have, perhaps, spoken more at large of the 
merits of Chaucer than is consistent with my plan 
in this Introductory Lecture, but his writings form 
so important an era in the history of English Poe- 
try, that I feel myself justified in making an ex- 
ception in his favour. Chaucer died, and left no- 
thing that resembled him behind him. Those Au- 
thors who formed what is called the School of Chau- 
cer, are in no particular entitled to the name, ex- 
cepting that they professed and entertained the 
profoundest veneration for their illustrious Master. 
Gower, although senior both in years and in au- 
thorship to Chaucer, and although he claims the 
latter as his scholar, — • 

" Grete well Chaucer, when ye mete 
As my disciple and Poete," 

did not begin to write English Poetry until after 
him, and is therefore placed in his School. He is a 
tame and mediocre writer, but every page displays 
his erudition, and shews that he possessed all the 
learning and accomplishments of his age. Neither 

b3 



10 LECTURES ON 

can much be said in favour of Occleve, or of 
Lydgate. The former, perhaps possessed more 
imagination, and the latter was the better versifier; 
but both are remembered only in the absence of 
superior talent. 

From the death of Chaucer to the middle of the 
reign of Henry the Eighth, the history of English 
Literature is one dull and gloomy blank. The 
civil disturbances by which the kingdom was then 
convulsed, are probably the principal cause of this. 
While men were trembling for their lives, they 
were not likely to occupy themselves greatly either 
in the production, or the perusal, of Literature. 
The Sceptre first passed from the strenuous grasp 
of Edward the Third into the feeble hands of his 
grandson. Then came the usurpation of Boling- 
broke ; the rebellion of Northumberland ; and 
afterwards the long and bloody wars of the Roses. 
Henry the Eighth mounted the throne with an 
undisputed title. He himself possessed some 
Literary talent, and made a shew — probably in 
emulation of his illustrious contemporary Francis 
of France, — of patronising letters and the Arts. 
Hence his reign was adorned by the productions 
of some men of real taste and genius, particularly 
by those of Lord Surrey, and Sir Thomas Wyatt. 
Neither of them were men of very commanding 



ENGLISH POETRY. 11 

powers, but they were both elegant and accom- 
plished writers, and did much, at least to refine 
our English versification. Surrey is also dis- 
tinguished as the first writer of narrative blank 
verse in our language, although he principally 
wrote in rhyme. Lord Vaux was also a very 
elegant lyrical writer, and some verses from one 
of his Songs are quoted by Shakspeare in the 
grave-digging scene in '* Hamlet.'^ Lord Buck- 
hurst was— in conjunction with Thomas Norton, — 
the Author of the first English Tragedy, *' Gor- 
boducf* a heavy, cumbrous performance, of but 
little value, except as a curious piece of antiquity. 
The noble Poet's fame is much better supported 
by his " Induction to the Mirror of Magistrates,^' 
a production of great power and originality. The 
tyrannical temper of the Sovereign, however, soon 
became manifest ; and, together with the contests 
between the Papists and the Reformers, diverted 
the attention of the nation from Literature. The 
noblest and the best were seen daily led to the 
scafi^old ; and, among them, Surrey, the accom- 
plished Poet whom I have just mentioned. The 
barbarous feuds stirred up by political and pole- 
mical animosity, which now again deluged the 
nation with blood, did not subside until Elizabeth 
ascended the throne. The Reign of Queen Eliza- 



1'2 LECTURES ON 

beth is the most illustrious period in the Literary 
history of modern Europe. Much has been said 
of the ages of Leo the Tenth, of Louis the 
Fourteenth, and of Queen Anne, but we are 
prepared to shew that the Literary trophies of the 
first mentioned period, are more splendid and 
important, than those of all the other three united. 
We are not alluding merely to what passed in our 
own country. The superiority of the literary efforts 
of that age to all the productions of English genius 
before or since, is too trite a truism to need our 
advocacy. But it is not so generally known, or, 
at least, remembered, that during the same period 
the other nations of Europe produced their master 
Spirits; and that Tasso, Camoens, and Cervantes, 
were contemporary with Shakspeare. Weigh these 
four names against those of all who have ever 
written, since the revival of Learning, to the present 
time, and the latter will be found to be but as 
dust in the balance. The accomplished scholars 
and elegant writers who adorned the Courts of 
Leo, of Louis, and of Anne, enjoy and deserve 
their fame ; but they must not be put in compe- 
tition with the mighty geniuses, who each, as it 
\fQxe,made the Literature of their respective coun- 
tries; whose works are columns " high o'er the 
wrecks of Time that stand sublime;" and whose 



ENGLISH POETRY. 13 

reputations are indepeDdent of all the adventitious 
advantages of Schools and Courts, and are the 
self-reared monuments of great and original minds, 
which no time shall ever be able to disturb. 

But though we have named only the four master 
Spirits of that period, yet that there is a troop 
behind, more numerous than those which were 
shewn in Banquos glass. Spenser, Ben Jonson, 
Fletcher, Massinger, Lope de Vega, Caideron, 
Marino, these are bright names, which cannot be 
lost, even in the overwhelming splendour of those 
which we have already mentioned. In Spain and 
England, Literature, and especially Dramatic 
Literature, flourished simultaneously ; and a simi- 
larity of taste and genius appears to have pervaded 
both Nations. The same bold and irregular flights 
of Fancy, the same neglect of ail classical rules of 
composition, more than atoned for by the same 
original and natural beauties of thought and dic- 
tion ; and the same less venial violations of time, 
place, and costume, characterise both the Castilian 
and the English Muses. There appears then to 
have existed an intercourse of Literature and in- 
tellect between the two Nations, the interruption of 
which is much to be deplored. The Spanish lan- 
guage was then much studied in England ; Spanish 
plots and scenery were chosen by many of our 



14 LECTURES ON 

Dramatists, and their dialogues, especially those 
of Jonson and Fletcher, were thickly interspersed 
with Spanish phrases and idioms. The marriage 
of Philip and Mary might probably conduce great- 
ly to this effect ; though the progress of the Refor- 
mation in England, and the strong political and 
commercial hostility, which afterwards existed be- 
tween the two nations, appear to have put an end 
to this friendly feeling. English Literature then 
began to be too closely assimilated to that of 
France, and sustained, in my opinion, irreparable 
injury by the connection. Spain appears to be our 
more natural ally in Literature ; and, it is a curious 
fact, that after the Poetry of both nations had for 
a long period been sunk in tameness and medio- 
crity, it should at the same time suddenly spring 
into pristine vigour and beauty, both in the Island 
and in the Peninsula ; for Melandez, Quintana, 
and Gonsalez, are the worthy contemporaries of 
Bjron, Wordsworth, Scott, and Moore. 

Two great Authors of each nation, have also ex- 
hibited some curious coincidences, both in the 
structure of their minds, and in the accidents 
of their lives. Ben Jonson fought in the English 
Army against the Spaniards in the Netherlands, 
and Lope de Vega accompanied the Spanish Ar- 
mada for the invasion of England. Shakspeare 



ENGLISH POETRY. 15 

and Cervantes, the profoundest masters of the 
human heart which the modern world has produced, 
were neither of them mere Scholars, shut up in the 
seclusion of a study ; both were busily engaged 
in active Hfe, although one merely trod the mimic 
stage, and the other acted a part on the World's 
great Theatre ; both were afflicted with a bodily 
infirmity ; Shakspeare was lame, and Cervantes 
had lost a hand ; and, a still stranger coincidence 
remains, for both died upon the same day. If it 
be indeed true then, that, — 

** they do not err 
Who say that when the Poet dies 
Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, 
And celebrates his obsequies,'' — 

how shall we be able to estimate the grief which 
pervaded Spain and England, on the 12th of April, 
1616 ? 

Elizabeth was unquestionably the first and most 
important person of the age in which she lived ; 
and, although she was, as Voltaire has somewhere 
called her, " Mistress of only half an Island," 
still she managed to humble the gigantic power of 
Spain ; to afford important succour to Henry the 
Fourth of France ; and to lay the foundation of 
that maritime superiority, which has given England, 



16 LECTURES ON 

insignificant as it is in extent and population, so 
important an influence over the destinies of the 
Globe. But besides this, she was a munificent 
and discriminating Patron of letters and literary 
men; was herself an accomplished linguist; and, 
according to Puttenham, " a Poetess of tolerable 
pretensions." Her Court was thronged with men 
of letters and of genius. Her Chancellor was the 
immortal Bacon, the father of modern Philosophy; 
among her most distinguished Captains, were 
Raleigh and Sidney ; among her Peers, were Lord 
Brooke, Vere, Earl of Oxford, and Herbert, Earl 
af Pembroke, all distinguished Poets ; among her 
Pi*elates and dignified Divines, were Hall, the first 
and best of English Satirists, and Donne, the 
founder of what has been called the Metaphysical 
School of Poetry ; and whatever honours she dis- 
tributed, lawn sleeves, or robes of ermine, Coronets, 
or badges of Knighthood, they were rarely, if 
ever, given without reference to the learning and 
genius of the receiver. 

James the First was destitute of the taste and 
talent of his great predecessor, but still he was 
desirous of being reputed a Patron of letters ; 
and, by virtue of some stiff, pedantic, and ab- 
surd productions of his pen, styled himself an Au- 
thor. Literature rather advanced than retrograded 



ENGLISH POETRY. 17 

under his rule ; and indeed, something Hke that 
mighty engine which is now of such enormous 
power, Public opinion, began to form in the na- 
tion ; taking Literature under it's protection, and 
thus rendering it less dependant, than heretofore, 
upon the Monarch and the Court. Of the So- 
vereign, however, who sent Raleigh to the block, 
no Literary man, or lover of letters, can speak 
with respect. The Authors who flourished in his 
reign were for' the most part those who adorned 
that of Elizabeth. 

The accession of Charles the First seemed an 
auspicious event for the cause of Literature, and 
the Arts. The Sovereign was himself a Prince of 
much learning, and of a refined and elevated 
taste. To him this nation is indebted for the ac- 
quisition of the Cartoons of Raphael ; he invited 
Vandyke, Rubens, Bernini, and other foreign 
Artists into this country ; was the liberal patron of 
Ben Jonson, Inigo Jones, and other native Poets 
and Artists ; and, amongst the crimes with which 
he was charged by his enemies, was one which, at 
the present day, we cannot judge to be quite un- 
pardonable, namely, — that the volumes of Shak- 
speare were his companions day and night. The 
Poets who flourished in his reign, in addition to 
those who survived the reigns of his predecessors. 



18 LECTURES ON 

although they possessed not the eommandiDg ge- 
nius, and the wonderful creative powers of the Bards 
of the Elizabethan age, — '* for there were Giants on 
the earth in those days," — were yet among the most 
polished and elegant writers which the nation has 
produced. The sweetness of their versification 
was not of that tame and cloying nature, which the 
imitators of Pope afterwards introduced into our 
Literature ; smooth to the exclusion of every bold 
and original thought. 

The writings of Carew, Crashaw, Waller, Her- 
rick, and Suckling, sparkling with the most bril- 
liant and original ideas, expressed in the most 
elegant versification, shine out like precious gems 
richly cased. The favourite amusement of this 
period was the Dramatic entertainments called 
Masques. These were got up at Court with an ex- 
traordinary magnificence, which, we are told, mo- 
dern splendour never reached even in thought ; 
and that the taste in which they were produced 
was equal to the splendour, we may rest assured, 
when we know that Ben Jonson commonly wrote 
the Poetry, Lawes composed the Music, andlnigo 
Jones designed the decorations. Had Charles 
long continued to sway the English sceptre, there 
is no doubt that Literature and the Arts, but espe- 
cially the latter, would have been materially ad- 



ENGLISH POETRY. 19 

vanced. To them the establishment of a Com- 
monwealth, whatever it may have effected for the 
civil and religious liberties of the country, gave a 
blow from which they have scarcely yet recovered. 
The Theatres were kept closed ; Stage Plays were 
considered impious and profane ; the Altar-pieces 
were torn down, and the statues broken in our 
Cathedrals, as idolatrous and encouraging the 
image-worship of the Papists. Music, which was 
wont to give so solemn and impressive an effect 
to the service of the Church, was abolished as one 
of the most odious among the abominations of Po- 
pery ; and Chaucer, Spenser^ and Shakspeare, 
were exiled from the libraries of the orthodox to 
make way for Withers, Quarles, and Herbert ! 
Nay, if we are literally to believe the assertion of 
an old Author, every thing which bore the slightest 
resemblance to the popish symbol of the Crucifix 
was held in such detestation, that even tailors were 
forbidden to sit cross-legged 1 The King's Paint- 
ings, we are told by Whitelocke, were sold at 
very low prices, and enriched all the collections 
in Europe ; and, but for the tact and management 
of Selden, the library and medals of Saint James's 
would have been put up to auction, in order to pay 
the arrears of some regiments of Cavalry, quar- 



20 LECTURES ON 

tered near London. Poets, and other literary men 
were not only disturbed in their studies by the 
clang- of arms, but many of them exchanged the 
pen for the sword, and mingled actively in- the 
contest which raged around them. 

Still, the most stirring- and turbulent times are 
not the most unfavourable to the productions of 
Poetry. The Muse catches inspiration from the 
storm, and Genius rides upon the whirlwind, while 
perhaps it would only slumber during the calm. 
Chaucer wrote amidst all the irritation and fury 
excited by the progress of the Reformation ; Spenser 
and Shakspeare, while the nation was contending 
for it's very existence ag-ainst the colossal power 
of Spain; and it was during- the pohtical and 
religious frenzy of the times of which we are now 
speaking, that Milton stored his mind with those 
sublime imaginings, which afterwards expanded 
into that vast masterpiece of human genius, the 
** Pai^adise Lost J' There can be but little doubt 
that when this illustrious Poet, a man so accom- 
plished in mind and manners, joined the Par- 
liamentary party, he made many sacrifices of taste 
and feeling, for what he considered — whether 
correctly or not, it is not now my province to 
enquire, — the cause of civil and religious liberty. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 21 

Neither, vulgar and tastless as was the mass of 
that party, was he without associates of whom 
even he had reason to be proud : — 

" Great men have been among us, hands that penn'd. 
And tongues that utter'd wisdom : better none ; 
The later Sydney, Marvell, Harrington, 
Young Vane, and others, who call'd Milton friend." 

In early life he published his charming *' Comusi" 
*' r Allegro," " II Penseroso,'' " LycidasJ' and 
others of his minor Poems. During the war, his 
active engagements, as Latin Secretary to the 
Protector, and, generally, as a political partisan, 
occupied him almost exclusively; although, he 
has himself told us, that, even then his mind was 
brooding over the production of something " which 
the world should not willingly let die." It was 
not, however, until *' fallen on evil days, and 
evil tongues," when the once celebrated Latin 
Secretary, and the future Poet of " all time," was 
only known as the blind old Schoolmaster of Ar- 
tillery-walk, that he produced his immortal Epic. 

The present Introductory Lecture being, as I 
have already stated, rather historical than critical, 
1 shall not here enter into any examination of the 
merits of " Paradise Lost.'' I would, however, 
say a few words as to it's effects upon the Literature 



22 LECTURES ON 

of the time. It is a very common error to suppose 
that it fell almost still-born from the press ; or, at 
least, that it was generally received with extraordi- 
nary coolness and neglect. That it was not at 
first acknowledged to be entitled to occupy that 
proud station on the British Parnassus, which is 
now universally conceded to it, is unquestionable ; 
but it is equally certain, that when first published, 
it was hailed with admiration and delight, by men 
of the highest talent ; and that even throughout 
the nation at large, the circumstances of the Author, 
and the spirit of the times considered,, it was far 
more successful than could have been reasonably 
expected. The Author was a democrat and a 
dissenter, and the age was ultra-loyal and ultra- 
orthodox: the Poem was thoroughly imbued with 
a religious feeling and sentiment, and the public 
to which it was addressed, was more profligate and 
irreligious than it had been known to have ever 
been before. " Paradise Lost" was moreover 
written in blank verse; anew, and strange, and, 
to many ears, an unpleasing style of metre, and, 
the purity and severity of taste which reigned 
throughout it, was opposed to the popular admira- 
tion of the far-fetched conceits and the tawdry 
ornaments of Cowley, and the Metaphysical School. 
Notwithstanding all these disadvantages, the Poem 



ENGLISH POETRY. 23 

received extraordinary homage, both from the 
learned and the public. Andrew Marvell and 
Dr. Barrow addressed eulogistic verses to the 
Author; and Dryden, the Laureate, and the 
favourite Poet of the day, when Milton's Epic 
was first introduced to his notice by the Earl of 
Dorset, exclaimed, *' This man cuts ns all out, 
and the ancients too." He also complimented 
Milton with the well known Epigram, beginning 
*' Three Poets, in three distant ages born ;" and 
afterwards, with his consent, constructed a Drama 
called *' The State of Innocence ; or, the Fall of 
Many' founded upon '* Paradise Lost'' " Fit au- 
dience let me find, though few," says Milton, and 
his wish was more than gratified ; for above 1300 
copies —a very great number in those days, — of 
his Poem were sold in less than two years ; and 
3000 more in less than nine years afterwards. It 
was not, however, until the celebrated critique of 
Addison appeared in the " Spectator y'' that the 
English nation at large became aware that it 
possessed a native Poet " above all Greek, above 
all Roman fame," and that it fully rendered him 
the honours which were so unquestionably his due. 
The publication of " Paradise Xo5^" was soon 
followed by that of " Paradise Regained,'' and 
** Sampson AgonistesT Neither of the latter works 



24 LECTURES ON 

can be said to have advanced the fame of the Author 
of the former ; but for any other author they would 
have assuredly won the wreath of immortality. They 
do not appear to have had any decided influence 
upon the taste and spirit of the time. The favourite 
Poets were Butler, Otway, and Dryden : and, if 
we can once forget the sin of overlooking Milton, 
we must admit that the judgment of the age can- 
not be very severely arraigned for it's choice of 
favourites. The matchless Wit of the first, not- 
withstanding his occasional grossnesses, and his 
too general obscurity ; the profound pathos, and 
sweet versification of the Second, notwithstanding 
his wretched ribald attempts at wit and humour, 
bis imperfect delineation of character, and the 
wicked sin of bombast, of which he is always guilty 
when he wishes to be sublime ; and the polish, 
elegance, and majestic flow of versification, the 
keen and indignant Satire, and the light and airy 
fancy of the last, notwithstanding his want of every 
thing that can be strictly called originality or inven- 
tion; I say that these brilliant endowments of the 
illustrious Triumvirate which I have named, are 
sufficient to eclipse all their imperfections, and to 
justify to the utmost, the eulogiums of their warmest 
admirers. About this period, too, began that bril- 
liant, but profligate School of Comedy, which, in 



ENGLISH POETRY. 25 

time, could number in it's ranks Wycherley, Ethe- 
rege, Farquhar, Vanbrugh, Congreve, Centlivre, 
and, last and least, Gibber. This School has been, 
strangely enough, termed a French School of 
Comedy : though all it's characteristics, both of 
merit and defect, appear to me to be perfectly 
national. The great stain of profligacy, which is 
unhappily impressed upon all it's productions, is 
certainly not to be traced to the example of our 
neighbours : for no one, even with the most 
thorough conviction of the superiority of our own 
Literature to their's, can pretend to point out in 
the scenes of French Comedy, any thing like the 
unblushing and shameless indelicacy which dis- 
graces the masterpieces of English wit and hu- 
mour. I fear that it is to that highly gifted duum- 
virate, Beaumont and Fletcher, that we must as- 
sign the " bad eminence" of having originally 
given to English Comedy this unfortunate charac- 
teristic. In the writings of Shakspeare, Jonson, 
and others of their contemporaries, we meet with 
occasional instances of this fault, but in none of 
them is it mixed up so essentially with the entire 
stamina and spirit of the Drama, as it is in Beau- 
mont and Fletcher. The domination of the Puritans 
afterwards checked this vitiated taste : but at the 
Restoration it broke out again in more than pris- 

c 



26 LECTURES ON 

tine vigour, and continued so long to infect Dra- 
matic Literature, that, with the exception of the 
" Provoked Husband" of Vanbrugh and Gibber, 
it would be difficult to point out a single Comedy 
between the times of Dryden and Steele, which 
could possibly now be read aloud in reputable 
society. Decency afterwards reigned upon the 
Stage ; but, unfortunately, she brought dulness 
and imbecility along with her. 

The reign of Queen Anne, to which our en- 
quiries have now brought us, is a very celebrated 
period in the annals of English Literature, and has 
been generally styled it's Augustan age. I am 
not disposed to quarrel with names. As far as 
Prose Literature is concerned, I am willing to 
admit that English Authors, during the reign of 
Anne, surpassed all their predecessors. The lan- 
guage certainly then possessed a higher polish, and 
was fixed upon a more durable basis, than it had 
ever attained before ; a taste for Literature was 
very generally diffused, and Authors were most 
munificently patronized. Indeed this may rather 
be styled the Golden age for Authors ; for eminence 
in polite Literature was then a passport to wealth, 
and honour, and sometimes to the highest offices 
of the State. Rowe v^as under Secretary for public 
afl'airs ; Congreve enjoyed a lucrative post in the 



ENGLISH POETRY. 27 

Customs; Swift exercised great authority and 
influence in the Tory cabinet ; Prior was Ambas- 
sador to the Court of France ; and Addison was a 
Secretary of State ; but if, by styling this the 
Augustan age, it is meant to affirm that it's Poetical 
productions are of a higher order of merit than 
those of any former period of our literary history, 
then I must pause before I admit the propriety of 
so designating it. Grace, fluency, elegance, and 
I will venture to add, mediocrity, are the charac- 
teristics of the Poetry of this age, rather than 
strength, profundity, and originality. True it is, 
that there are splendid exceptions to this rule, and 
that Swift, Pope, and Gay brightened the annals 
of the period of which I am speaking; but what 
are it's pretensions, when compared with the age 
of Queen Elizabeth? What are even the great 
names which I have just mentioned, when weighed 
against those of Jonson, Fletcher, Massinger, 
Spenser, and Shakspeare ? and as to the minor 
writers of the two periods, who would dream of 
mentioning Donne, Drummond, Brown, Carew, 
and Herrick, in the same breath with Duke, King, 
Sprat, Tickell, Yalden, and Hughes? I must 
even deny the boasted refinement of versification 
in the latter age ; unless to refine be to smooth, 
and level, and reduce ail to one tame and insipid 

c 2 



28 LECTURES ON 

equality. Leaving originality out of the question, 
I will ask, what Lyrical pieces of the age of Queen 
Anne, can, in mere elegance of diction, and flow 
of versification, be compared to the Lyrical parts 
of Jonson's and Beaumont's Dramas, and the sweet 
Songs of Carew and Herrick I The following is 
a once much admired Song, by Lord Landsdowne, 
who was Comptroller of the Household to Queen 
Anne :— 



" Thoughtful nights, and restless waking, 
Oh ! the pains that we endure ! 
Broken faith, unkind forsaking, 
Ever doubting, never sure. 

Hopes deceiving, vain endeavours. 

What a race has Love to run ! 
False protesting, fleeting favours, 

Every, every way undone. 

Still complaining, and defending. 

Both to love, yet not agree ; 
Fears tormenting, passion rending, 

Oh ! the pangs of jealousy. 

From such painful ways of living, 
Ah ! how sweet could Love be free ! 

Still preserving, still receiving, 
Fierce, immortal ecstasy I" 

To these Verses, which, I admit, are exceed- 



ENGLISH POETRY. 29 

ingly smooth and flowing, I will oppose some by 
the supposed rugged old bard, Ben Jonson ; and 
I will then ask, for I do not wish to bear unrea- 
sonably hard upon the noble Poet of the Augustan 
age, — I say, I will then ask, not which has the 
most sense, the most meaning, the most Poetry, 
but which of the two Songs possesses the noblest 
music in the versification ? 



" Oh ! do not wanton with those eyes, 
Lest I be sick with seeing ; 
Nor cast them down, but let them rise, 
Lest shame destroy their being. 

Oh ! be not angry with those fires, 

For then their threats will kill me. 
Nor look too kind on my desires, 

For then my hopes will spill me. 

Oh ! do not steep them in thy tears, 

For so will sorrow slay me, 
Nor spread them as distract with fears. 

Mine own enough betray me !" 

When it is remembered, that these latter verses 
were written one hundred years before the former, 
I think that I shall not excite any surprise, when I 
say that I cannot discover in what consists the won- 
derful refinement, and improvement in versifica- 



.30 LECTURES ON 

tion, which is boasted to have taken place during 
that period. 

Pope was the great Poet of that age, and it is 
to him alone that English versification is indebted 
for all the improvement which it then received ; 
an improvement which is confined to the heroic 
measure of ten syllables. That noble measure 
had hitherto been written very lawlessly and care- 
lessly. Denham and Dryden alone, had reduced 
it to any thing like regularity and rule, and even 
they too often sanctioned, by their example, the 
blemishes of others. Of Pope, it is scarcely too 
much to say, that there is not a rough or dis- 
cordant line in all that he has written. His 
thoughts, so often brilliant anct original, sparkle 
more brightly by reason of the elegant and flowing 
rhymes in which they are expressed ; and even 
where the idea is feeble, or common place, the 
music of the versification almost atones for it : the 
ear is satisfied, although the mind is disappointed. 
Still, it must be confessed, that Pope carried his 
refinements too far ; his sweetness cloys at last ; 
his music wants the introduction of discords to 
give full effect to the harmony. The unpleasant 
effect produced upon the ear by the frequently 
running of the sense of one line with another, and 
especially of continuing the sentence from the last 



ENGLISH POETRY. 31 

line of one couplet to the first line of the next. 
Pope felt, and judiciously avoided. Still, for the 
sense always to find a pause with the couplet, and 
often with the rhyme, will necessarily produce 
something like tedium and sameness. Succeeding 
Authors have been conscious of this fault in Pope's 
versification, and have, in some measure, reverted 
to the practice of his predecessors. Lord Byron 
especially, has, by pauses in the middle of the line, 
and by occasionally, but with judgment and cau- 
tion, running one line into another, — enormities, 
at which the Poet of whom we are now speaking 
would have been stricken with horror, — has fre- 
quently produced effects of which the well tuned, 
but somewhat fettered. Lyre of Pope was utterly 
incapable. It is, however, injustice to Pope, to 
speak of him so long as a mere versifier; great as 
his merits were in that respect, his Poetry, as we 
shall hereafter show, more at length, possessed 
recommendations of a higher and nobler order; 
keen Satire, deep pathos, great powers of de- 
scription, and wonderful richness and energy of 
diction. 

At this period, no attempt, worthy of our notice, 
was made at Epic Poetry, and the leaden sceptre 
of French taste was stretched over the Tragic 
Drama, and over Lyric, Pastoral, and descriptive 



32 LECTURES ON 

Poetry. The Tragedies of Shakspeare were 
driven from the Stage, to make way for those of 
Addison and Rowe ; such Songs as my Lord 
Lansdowne's, of which I have given a specimen, 
were thought wonderfully natural and touching; 
and Pastoral and descriptive Poetry was in the 
hands of such rural swains as Ambrose Phillips, 
and others, who were called men of wit about 
town; who painted their landscapes after the 
model of Hyde Park, and the squares ; and drew 
their sketches of rural life and manners from what 
they observed at the Levees and the Drawing- 
rooms of the great. Mere unsophisticated simple 
Nature was considered low and vulgar, and when 
Gay wrote his '^ Eclogues" which he intended 
should be burlesque, he went to the furthest 
possible remove from the fashionable and elegant 
way of writing Pastoral Poetry, and so, uncon- 
sciously produced a real and natural likeness of 
rustic scenery and society. There is a well known 
picture of day -break by Shakspeare, which, 
although comprised in two lines, possesses more 
of reality and vividness than can be found in whole 
volumes of diffuse description which I could name : 

" Night^s candles are burnt out, and jocund Day 
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain's top.'* 



ENGLISH POETRY. 33 

This passage would have been considered vile and 
vulgar by the critics of those days : the word 
" candles" would have been voted low and un- 
poetical, and " torches," perhaps, substituted for 
it; " Day'* would never have been described as 
standing " tiptoe," but as with " foot upraised," 
or ** proudly advancing;" and what gentleman 
who walked about the Strand and the Mall, writing 
Pastoral poetry, would, when speaking of " moun- 
tain tops," have thought of the mists which some- 
times envelope them, or would have dreamed 
that such ugly accompaniments could possibly add 
to their sublimity and beauty? Shakspeare has 
so little idea of what is regal and Roman, that he 
shews us Lear, tottering about amidst the pelting 
of the storm, and taking shelter with a madman 
and a fool in a hovel ; and describes Julius Ccesar 
as once shivering with an ague-fit ; — 



*■*■ Aye, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans 
Mark him, and write his speeches in their bookSj 
Alas ! it cried, ' give me some drink, Titinius,' 
Like a sick girl !" 



In the Augustan age, however, things were ordered 
very differently; — " On avoit change tout cela." 
Alexander could not appear upon the Stage until 

c3 



34 LECTURES ON 

one of the persons of the Drama exclaims, ** Be- 
hold ! the master of the world approaches!" Cato, 
when for the first time he sees the dead body of 
his son, does not as Shakspeare, in his ignorance, 
would have probably made him do, — 

*^ Shed some natural tears, but wipe them soon," 

but merely exclaims, '* What a pity it is that one 
can die but once to serve our country !" and, when 
the heroine of the ** Cid^^ learns that her Father has 
been slain by her lover, what does she do? In 
nature, she would faint, or at any rate she would 
certainly not think of ceremony, but in the Drama, 
she makes the politest of all possible curtsies to 
the company, and begs that they will excuse her 
retiring for a few moments ! 

The fact is, that the age of Anne rendered itself 
illustrious by it's Prose writings. It's Poetry is, 
with few exceptions, exceedingly mediocre. Pope, 
Gay, Swift, Steele, Shaftsbury, Addison, and 
Bolingbroke, are it's foremost Authors. Of these, 
the first alone is entitled to the rank of a great 
Poet, and the Poetry of the last five is too trifling 
and unimportant to be taken into the account. 

The history of English Poetry for a long period 
afterwards presents a very dreary and melancholy 



ENGLISH POETRY. 35 

prospect. It is in the Didactic walk alone, •which 
is the nearest allied to Prose, that we meet with 
any production approaching to excellence, with 
the exception of the beautiful Odes of Collins. 
Thomson, Akenside, Goldsmith, Young, and 
Dyer, are men to whom English Literature is 
greatly indebted, and who distinguished themselves 
as much as the narrow walk in which they chose 
to be confined would allow them. Thomson espe- 
cially did much to bring back the artificial taste of 
the public to a just appreciation of natural scenes 
and sentiments, naturally described and expressed. 
His exclamation on the publication of Glover's 
*^' Leonidas,'^ "• What! he write an Epic Poem 
who never saw a mountain !" shews that he well 
knew that Nature was the only school in which 
true Poetry is taught. Yet even Thomson himself 
was somewhat infected with the taste of the age, 
and is too fond of pompous and high-sounding 
diction, in which we frequently find his beautiful 
thoughts obscured, instead of being adorned. 
This objection, however, does not apply to the 
** Castle of Indolence f^ the most delightful pro- 
duction of it's age. Akenside wrote elegantly and 
classically, with precision, and with energy. Gold- 
smith is perfection in every thing that he has 
done : the only thing to regret is, that he has done 



36 LECTURES ON 

SO little. Young, so often turgid and declamatory, 
is not, I confess, much to my taste, although he 
has doubtless many bold and original thoughts, 
which he expresses very powerfully. Dyer, in 
his long Poem upon Sheep-shearing has made as 
much of so unpoetical a theme as could possibly 
be expected ; but the theme, after all, had better 
have been let alone. The Epics of Blackmore, 
of Wilkie, and of Glover, once enjoyed conside- 
rable popularity. They have now passed into 
comparative oblivion ; and, with the exception of 
the " Leotiidas" of the last, they have achieved 
only the destiny which they merited. Glover 
was a Scholar, and a man of taste. His Poem is 
chaste, classical, and elegant; but at the same 
time, defective in action, character, passion, and 
interest. The sentiments are just, and eloquently 
expressed, and the imagery and descriptions are 
in strict congruity with the classical nature of the 
subject ; but still the effect of the entire Poem is 
such, that we rather approve than admire. What 
Dr. Johnson said of his Dramatic namesake, may, 
with much more truth and propriety, be applied 
to Glover :— 



** Cold approbation gives the lingering bays, 

And those who dare not censure, scarce can praise." 



ENGLISH POETRY. 37 

But brighter days were about to dawn on English 
Poetical Literature. The public became satiated 
with the mediocrity with which their poetical ca- 
terers gorged them, and they began to turn their 
eyes upon the elder writers, whose traditionary 
fame still survived, and whose works were much 
talked of, although they were little read. Johnson 
and Steevens published their edition of Shakspeare ; 
and so laid the foundation of that general knowledge 
and due appreciation of the merits of the great 
Dramatist, which forms so distinguishing and cre- 
ditable a feature in the public taste at the present 
day. Percy gave to the world those invaluable 
literary treasures, the ** Reliques of Ancient En- 
glish Poetry,*' which, although at first received 
with coolness and neglect, eventually, by their 
simplicity and beauty, extorted general admiration ; 
and, as Mr. Wordsworth has said, ** absolutely 
redeemed the Poetry of this country." — '* I do 
not think," adds this distinguished Author, *' that 
there is an able writer in verse of the present day, 
who would not be proud to acknowledge his 
obligations to the * Reliques.' I know that it is so 
with my friends ; and for myself, I am happy to 
make a public avowal of my own." The new 
Edition of Shakspeare turned the attention of the 
public to the works of his contemporaries, and 



38 LECTURES ON 

Beaumont and Fletcher, Ford, Massinger, and 
Jonson, with all the world of literary wealth which 
their works contain, were given to the public by 
the successive labours of Seward, Whalley, Cole- 
man, Weber, and Gifford. Ellis and Headley 
also published their " Specimens of the Ancient En- 
glish Poets ,•" and Dr. Anderson sent forth into the 
world his Edition of the English Poets, including 
all those mighty Bards who were omitted in Dr. 
Johnson's Edition, by reason of the strange plan 
which he imposed upon himself, or which was 
dictated to him by others, of beginning that col- 
lection with the works of Cowley. An Author too, 
of a far higher character for originality of mind, 
purity of taste, simplicity of thought and expres- 
sion, and deep observation of nature, than had 
come before the public for many years, appeared 
in the person of the highly-gifted, but ill-fated 
Cowper. The success of his exquisite ** Task'* 
was so rapid and brilliant, as to shew that the taste 
of the public had undergone a great revolution, 
since the time when the Pastorals of Phillips, the 
Heroics of Blackmore, and the Lyrics of Lans- 
downe, were it's favourite studies. 

Into the merits and the authenticity of two works, 
which created an extraordinary sensation about this 
time, I shall have a more convenient opportunity 



ENGLISH POETRY. 39 

of enquiring in a subsequent Lecture. I mean 
the Poems attributed to Rowley the Saxon, and to 
Ossian the Celtic, Poets. The authenticity of the 
former appears to be a point which is now very 
generally given up ; but that of the latter is a 
question with which the literary world is still 
agitated, and with which it will probably continue 
to be agitated, as long as the Poems themselves 
are extant. 

Having thus endeavoured to lay before you the 
history of the rise and progress of English Poetry, 
from the days of Chaucer to those of Cowper, I 
do not intend to bring the enquiry down to a later 
period, or to venture upon any discussion of the 
merits of the writers of the present day. There is, 
however, one omission in my Lecture which may 
perhaps require an explanation. I have not directed 
your attention to the Scottish Poets who flourished 
during the period which has been embraced by our 
enquiries. This omission has occurred, not, I 
trust, from any insensibility to the merits of those 
distinguished writers, but from a consciousness of 
my own inability to speak critically upon the 
subject. To select a few names at random, 
Dunbar, the northern Chaucer ; James the First, 
the only Monarch whose poetical laurels have been 
large enough to hide his diadem ; and Burns, the 



40 LECTURES ON 

most exquisite Lyrical Poet which this nation or any 
other has ever yet possessed, are Authors whose 
merits, although they may be universally felt and 
appreciated, can only be critically expounded and 
pointed out by a native of the country to which 
they belong. 

Here, therefore, must we pause for the present: 
the illustrious names which have " been familiar in 
our mouths as household words," carry their own 
eulogy along with them ; and I will venture to 
assert, that there are few persons who will refuse 
to echo the sentiment of a distinguished living 
writer ; — 



Blessings be on them, and eternal praise, 
The Poets!" 



ENGLISH POETRY. 41 



LECTURE THE SECOND. 



EPIC AND NARRATIVE POETRY. 

Epic Poetry in general: — Epic and Dramatic Poetry com- 
pared : — Critical distinction between Taste and Genius: — 
Chaucer, Spenser, and Milton compared: — The Mirror 
for Magistrates : — Lord Buckhurst : — Drayton : — Chamber- 
lain's Pharonnida: — Chapman's Homer, and other old 
English Translations of Epic and Narrative Poetry: — 
Milton : — Influence of Paradise Lost on the National 
Taste: — Paradise Regained: — Cowley's Davideis: — Dave- 
nant:— Dryden:--The Translations of Rowe, Pope, &c. 
— Authenticity of Macpherson's Ossian : — Chatterton. 

Having already treated the subject of English 
Poetry historically, and endeavoured to give a 
sketch of the revolutions in Public taste and 
opinion, I shall not consider myself any longer 
bound to speak of the Authors who may come 
under our review in any Chronological order, but 
shall classify them according to the nature of the 
subjects on which they have written. I shall, 
therefore, devote this, and the remaining Lec- 
tures, to the consideration, — First, of Epic and 



42 LECTURES ON 

Narrative Poetry; Secondly, of Dramatic Poetry ; 
Thirdly, of Descriptive and Didatic Poetry; in- 
cluding Pastoral and Satire ; and Fourthly, of 
Lyrical and Miscellaneous Poetry. In pursuance 
of which arrangement, we shall at present confine 
our attention to the subject of Epic and Narrative 
Poetry. 

The production of a standard Epic Poem has 
been generally considered the highest effort of 
human genius, and so seldom has such an effort 
been made, that the rarity of such an occurrence 
alone, would seem to justify the very high estimate 
which has been formed of it's value. I will not at- 
tempt to say how many, or how few. Poems have 
been produced, which are really and truly of an 
Epic character. Some Critics maintain that there 
is only one, the production of the immortal Father 
of Poetry; others admit the ** yE/zezc?" into the 
list ; Englishmen struggle to obtain the Epic bays 
for Milton ; and the Italians, the Portuguese, 
and the Germans are equally strenuous in their 
advocacy of the rights of Tasso, of Camoens, and 
of Klopstock. Even granting all these claims, 
and I am not aware of another which is deserving 
of a moment's consideration, we shall find that the 
World has, during the Six thousand years of it's 
existence, produced only six Epic Poets. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 43 

I know that there are Critics who consider the 
Drama entitled to a higher rank than the Epopee. 
For my own part, I would rather 

" Bless the Sun, than reason how it shines :" — 

I would rather enjoy the beauties of the Epic and 
the Dramatic Muses, than oppose them to each 
other, and awaken controversy as to their relative 
excellencies. As the subject, however^ forces 
itself upon us, and as I mean to touch it reve- 
rently, for, — 

" "We do it wrong, being so majestical, 
To offer it the shew of violence," 

I will venture a few observations upon it. The 
Drama is to Epic Poetry, what Sculpture is to 
Historical Painting. It is, perhaps, on the whole, 
a severer Art. It rejects many adventitious aids 
of which the Epic may avail itself. It has more 
unity and simplicity. It's figures stand out more 
boldly, and in stronger relief. But then it has no 
aerial background ; it has no perspective of enchant- 
ment ; it cannot draw so largely on the imagination 
of the spectator ; it must present to the eye, and 
make palpable to the touch, what the Epic Poet 
may steep in the rainbow hues of Fancy, and veil, 



44 LECTURES ON 

but with a veil of light, woven in the looms of his 
Imagination. The Epopee comprises Narration 
and Description, and yet must be, in many parts, 
essentially Dramatic. The Epic Poet is the 
Dramatic Author and the Actor combined. The 
fine characteristic speech which Milton puts into 
the mouth of Moloch, in the Second Book of 
** Paradise Lost,'^ proves him to have been pos- 
sessed of bigh powers for Dramatic writing ; and 
when, after the speech is concluded, the Poet 
adds, — 

" He ended frowning, and his look denounced 
Desperate revenge, and battle dangerous 
To less than Gods :"— 

he personates the character with a power and 
energy worthy of the noblest Actor. I have said 
that the Epic Poet is the Dramatist and the Actor 
combined ; but he is more. He must not only 
write the Dialogue, and create the Actors who are 
to utter it, but he must also erect the Stage on 
which they are to tread, and paint the scenes in 
which they are to appear. Still, the Drama, by 
the very circumstances which condense and cir- 
cumscribe it's powers, becomes capable of exciting 
a more intense and tremendous interest. Hence 
there are pieces of Dramatic writing which, even 



ENGLISH POETRY, 45 

in the perusal only, have an overwhelming power, 
to which Epic Poetry cannot attain. The Third 
Act of " Othello,'' the Dagger scene in *' Mac- 
hethy'' and the interview between Wallenstein 
and the Swedish Captain, may be adduced as in- 
stances. Perhaps, to sum up the whole question, 
what the Epic Poet gains in expansion and variety, 
the Dramatic Poet gains in condensation and in- 
tensity. When Desdemona says to Othello, — 

" And yet I fear, 
When your eyes roll so ;" 

we have as vivid a portrait of the Moor's coun- 
tenance, as the most laboured description could 
give us. Again, how powerfully is the frown on 
the features of the Ghost in *' Hamlet'' pictured 
to us in two lines : — 

*' So frown*d he once, when in an angry parle, 
He smote the sledded Polack on the ice." 

Such descriptions would be meagre and unsa- 
tisfactory in Epic Poetry ; more diffuse ones would 
mar the interest, and impede the action in the 
Drama. In the Drama the grand pivot upon 
which the whole moves is Action ; in Epic Poetry 
it is narration. Narration is the fitter medium for 
representing a grand series of events ; and action 



46 LECTURES ON 

for exhibiting the power and progress of a passion, 
or the consequences of an incident. Hence, the 
siege of Troy, the wanderings of Ulysses, and 
the loss of Paradise, are Epic subjects ; and the 
jealousy of Othello, the ambition of Macbeth, and 
the results of the ill-grounded partiality of Xe«r, 
are Dramatic ones. The Epic Poet takes a loftier 
flight ; the Dramatist treads with a firmer step. 
The one dazzles ; the other touches. The Epic is 
wondered at ; the Drama is felt. We lift Milton 
like a conqueror above our heads ; we clasp Shak- 
speare like a brother to our hearts ! 

Before I proceed further, it will be requisite to 
state the sense in which I shall use two words, 
which will necessarily occur very frequently in the 
course of these Lectures; — namely, Genius and 
Taste. Genius, I should say, is the power of 
production ; Taste is the power of appreciation. 
Genius is creation ; Taste is selection. Horace 
Walpole was a man of great Taste, without an 
atom of Genius. Nathaniel Lee was a man of 
Genius, without Taste. Dryden had more Genius 
than Pope. Pope had more Taste than Dryden. 
Many instances may be adduced of obesity of 
Taste in men of Genius; especially with reference 
to their own works. Milton, who had Genius 
enough to produce *' Paradise Lost" had not 



ENGLISH POETRY. 47 

Taste enough to perceive it's superiority over 
*' Paradise Regained J' Rowe, who produced so 
many successful Tragedies, all of which — although 
I am no violent admirer of them, — possessed a 
certain degree of merit, valued himself most upon 
the wretched ribaldry in his Comedy of the 
" Biter '^ Dr. Johnson was proud of his Dic- 
tionary, and looked upon the ** Rambler'* as a 
trifle of which he ought almost to be ashamed. 
The timidity and hesitation with which many 
juvenile Authors have ventured to lay their works 
before the public, and their surprise when public 
opinion has stamped them as works of high merit, 
have been attributed to humility and bashfulness. 
The fact, however, is often otherwise; it is not 
humility, but want of Taste. Genius, or the 
power of producing such works, is not accompa- 
nied by Taste, or the power of appreciating them. 
Taste is of later growth in the mind than Genius ; 
and the reason is, I think, obvious. Genius is 
innate; a part and portion of the mind; born with 
it ; while Taste is the result of observation, and 
enquiry, and experience. However the folly and 
vanity of ignorance and presumption may have 
deluged the public with worthless productions, 
there can be no doubt that the deficiency of Taste 
in men of Genius, has deprived the world of many 



48 LECTURES ON 

a work of merit and originality. Genius is often 
startled at the boldness of her own ideas ; while, 

** Fools rush in, where Angels fear to tread." 

Having said thus much in explanation of the 
sense in which I shall use two words, which are so 
often employed in a vague and indefinite manner, 
let us return to the immediate subject before us. 
It has been said that EngUsh Literature cannot 
boast of the possession of any work which is strictly 
entitled to be denominated an Epic Poem. I 
know not exactly what this assertion means. If it 
mean that the works of the English Poets are not 
curiously and exactly modelled after the example 
of classical writers; then I admit and I glory in it's 
truth. The great characteristic of English Litera- 
ture, from the days of Chaucer to the present time, 
has been it's originality. Words are arbitrary, and 
I care not greatly whether the specific term Epic 
can be appropriately applied to the works of 
Chaucer, or of Spenser, or of Milton. If the 
Critics who are such strenuous advocates for the 
exclusive possession of the Epic bays by Homer 
and Virgil, will be conciliated by such a conces- 
sion, I will be content that " Paradise Lost" shall 
be called a Divine Poem; the *' Fairy Queen," a 



ENGLISH POETRY. 49 

Romantic Poem ; and the ** Canterhury Tales,'' a 
Narrative Poem. If original Genius, if severe 
Taste, if profound knowledge of human nature, 
if a luxuriant imagination, and a rich and copious 
diction, entitle a Poet to the highest honours of his 
Art, then are the three illustrious Englishmen 
whom I have named, whether I may call them 
Epic Poets, or not, eminently and incontestibly 
entitled to those honours. 

These three Poets have not many points of 
comparison. They are each original and great. If 
I may be allowed to illustrate my opinions by a 
reference to the sister art, I should say, that 
Chaucer's outlines are more spirited and graceful; 
but that Spenser is the finer colourist. Chaucer 
I should compare to Rafi*aeUe ; Spenser to Rubens : 
but then Chaucer combined with all his elegance 
and beauty, many laughing graces which neither 
his brother bard, nor the illustrious artist whom I 
have just named, possessed. If one could suppose 
a congruity in such a combination, I should say 
that Chaucer was Raffaelle and Teniers combined : 
Raffaelle, perhaps, a little lowered from his pin- 
nacle of dignity and elegance, and Teniers cer- 
tainly much elevated above his vulgarity and gross- 
nesses. For the genius of Milton, I can hardly 
find a fitting comparison. When he sets the Deity 



50 LECTURES ON 

in arms, when he marshals myriads of malignant 
Spirits in battle array against Omnipotence^ when 
he paints the bliss of Heaven, and the horrors of 
Hell, he reminds me of the power and sublimity 
of Michael Angelo : when he shews us our first 
Parents, sinless, artless, and endowed with godlike 
beauty ; — 

" Adam the goodliest Man of men since born 
His sons ; the fairest of her daughters, Eve ;" 

he exhibits all the grace and beauty of Raffaelle : 
when he paints the happy fields of Paradise, where 
Nature played at will her virgin fancies, he seems 
to have caught the pencil of Claude Lorraine ; and 
when we listen to the solemn and majestic flow of 
his verse, and the ear dwells on the rich harmony 
of his periods, we are reminded of another Art, 
and feel that neither Mozart, nor Handel, could 
produce Music so perfect and soul-stirring as that 
of Milton. 

In the former Lecture I discussed, as fully as 
my limits would permit me, the merits of Chaucer, 
the Father of English Poetry. Spenser is an 
Author of a very different stamp. To Wit or 
Humour, he has no pretensions. Neither are his 
delineations of human character at all comparable 



ENGLISH POETRY. 51 

to those of his great predecessor. Chaucer's 
knowledge of the heart of man was almost Shak- 
speareau. Spenser had, however, a richer imagi- 
nation. He was a greater inventor, although a 
less acute observer. Chaucer was incapable of 
creating such original imaginary beings as the 
Fays, Elves, Heroes, and Heroines of Spenser ; 
and Spenser was equally incapable of the exquisite 
truth and fidelity of Chaucer's portraitures from 
real life. There is also a fine moral and didactic 
tone running through the " Fairy Queen j^ which 
we look for in vain, in the " Canterbury Tales,'' 
Spenser's imagery is magnificent. His descriptive 
powers are of the highest order. Here the two 
Poets approximate more than in any other par- 
ticular: yet, even here they essentially differ. 
Spenser paints Fairy haunts, enchanted Palaces, 
unearthly Paradises, things such as Caliban saw 
in his sleep, and, ^' waking, cried to dream again.'* 
Chaucer's pencil depicts the smiHng verdant En- 
glish landscape, which we see before us every 
day; the grass, the flowers, the brooks, the blue 
sky, and the glowing sun. 

When we open the volumes of Spenser, we 
leave this *' working-day world," as Rosalind calls 
it, behind us. We are no longer in it, or of it. 
We are introduced to a uq-^ creation, new scenes. 



52 LECTURES ON 

new manners, new characters. The laws of Na- 
ture are suspended, or reversed. The possible, 
the probable, and the practicable, all these are 
thrown behind us. The mighty Wizard whose 
spell is upon us, waves but his wand, and a new 
World starts into existence, inhabited by nothing 
but the marvellous and the wild. Spenser is the 
very antipodes of Shakspeare. The latter is of the 
earth, earthy. His most ethereal fancies have 
some touch of mortality about them. His wildest 
and most visionary characters savour of humanity. 
Whatever notes he draws forth from his Harp, it 
is the strings of the human heart that he touches. 
Spenser's Hero is always Honour, Truth, Valour, 
Courtesy, but it is not Man. His Heroine is 
Meekness, Chastity, Constancy, Beauty, but it is 
not Woman ; — his landscapes are fertility, magni- 
ficence, verdure, splendour, but they are not 
Nature. His pictures have no relief; they are all 
light, or all shadow ; they are all wonder, but no 
truth. Still do I not complain of them ; nor would 
I have them other than what they are. They are 
delightful, and matchless in their way. They are 
dreams : glorious, soul-entrancing dreams. They 
are audacious, but magnificent falsehoods. They 
are like the Palaces built in the clouds ; the domes, 
the turrets, the towers^ the long-drawn terraces, 



ENGLISH POETRY. 53 

the aerial battlements, who does not know that they 
have no stable existence ? but, who does not sigh 
when they pass away ? 

The ** Mirror for Magistrates " was a work to 
which many of the most eminent Writers in Eliza- 
beth's Reign contributed. It consists of Narra- 
tives of the adventures of certain Princes, and 
other great characters in English history, whose 
lives had been unfortunate. It's incidents are 
founded on the old Chronicles, which, indeed, are 
followed so servilely in general, as to give to the 
work a very prosaic character, and to take from 
it all claim to originality. The most valuable por- 
tion of it is the Induction, by Lord Buckhurst. 
The Poet supposes himself to be led, like Dante, 
to the Infernal Regions, under the conduct of 
Sorrow ; where he meets with the Spirits of those 
persons, alike distinguished for their high station, 
and their misfortunes, whose narrations compose 
the Volume. He also meets with various Allego- 
rical characters : such as Fear, Sorrow, Old Age, 
Sleep, and Death; and it is in the wonderful power 
and spirit with which the Poet personifies these 
allegorical beings, that the great merit of his work 
consists. What, for instance, can be finer, or 
truer, than the following picture of Old Age ? — 



64 LECTURES ON 

" And next in order sad Old Age we found ; 

His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind, 
With drooping cheer still poring on the ground. 
As on the place where nature him assign'd 
To rest, when that the Sisters had untwined 
His vital thread, and ended with their knife. 
The fleeting course of fast-declining life. 



Crookback'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed, 
Went on three feet, and sometimes crept on four ; 

With old lame bones that rattled by his side, 
His scalp all piled, and he with eld forlore ; 
His wither'd fist still knocking at Death's door. 

Trembling and drivelling as he draws his breath, 

In brief, the shape and. messenger of Death." 

Sleep is also delineated with the pencil of a 
master : — 

" By him lay heavy Sleep, Cousin of Death, 
Flat on the ground, and still as any stone ; 

A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath ; 

Small keep took he, whom Fortune frowned on. 
Or whom she lifted up into the Throne 

Of high renown ; but as a living death. 

So dead alive, of life he drew the breath. 

The body's rest, the quiet of the heart, 
The travail's ease, the still Night's fere was he. 

And of our life in earth the better part j 
Rever of sight, and yet in whom we see 
Things oft' that 'tide, and oft' that never be. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 55 

Without respect, esteeming equally 
King Croesus' pomp, and Irus' poverty.'^ 

The following description of Night may likewise 
challenge a comparison with any thing on the same 
subject in the language : — 

" Midnight was come, when every vital thing 

With sweet, sound sleep their weary limbs did rest ; 
The beasts were still, the little birds that sing, 
Now sweetly slept beside their mother's breast, 
The old and all were shrouded in their nest ; 
The waters calm, the cruel seas, did cease, 
The woods, and fields, and all things held their peace. 

The golden Stars were whirl'd amid their race, 
And on the Earth did laugh with twinkling light ; 

When each thing nestled in his resting place. 
Forgot Day's pains with pleasure of the Night : 
The hare had not the greedy hound in sight ; 

The fearful deer of death stood not in doubt ; 

The partridge dreamt not of the falcon's foot." 

I have not time to dwell at large upon the merits 
of the other Narrative Poets of the Elizabethan 
age. Drayton was a man of real genius ; but, 
like many of his contemporaries, he was a bad 
economist of his powers. He wasted them upon 
unworthy subjects ; and often exhibits feebleness, 
on occasions where the exertion of his highest 



6G LECTURES ON 

powers is demanded and deserved. Warner in 
Lis '* Albion's England" has preserved many of 
our old national traditions, and embellished them 
with much truth, nature, and simplicity. The 
JBallad stanza^ however, in which he writes, be- 
comes tedious and fatiguing, when excruciated to 
the length in which he employs it. Chamberlain's 
*' Pharonnida!' is a very noble work. The cha- 
racters are drawn and supported with great truth 
and force ; the action of the Poem is eventful and 
interesting, and the images bold, natural, and 
original. A very few instances will suflSce to 
shew how rich the Poem is in the latter particular. 
Joys not yet mature, or consummated, are elegantly 
said to be 

" Clothed in fresh 
Blossoms of Hope, like Souls ere mix'd with flesh :" 

and Hope is stvled 

" That wanton bird that sings as soon as hatch'd." 

The agitation of Pharonnida, when discovered 
by her Father with her Lover's letter in her hand, 
is thus described :~- 

" She stands 
A burthen to her trembling legs, her hands 



ENGLISH POETRY. 57 

Wringing each other's ivory joints, her bright 
Eyes scattering their distracted beams." 

May wrote the Histories of Henry the Second, 
and of Edward the Third, in verse. He also 
translated the *' Georgics'' of Virgil, and the 
*' Pharsalia^' of Lucan. The last is a performance 
of great merit ; as is also the continuation of the 
Poem to the death of Julius Csesar, by the trans- 
lator. The Reign of Queen Elizabeth was pecu- 
liarly rich in Poetical translations. Fairfax's Tasso, 
which was so long and so strangely neglected, is 
now recovering it's popularity. Of all the strange 
caprices of the Public taste, there is none more 
strange, than the preference which was given to 
the rhyme-tagged prose of Hoole, over this spirited 
and truly poetical production of Fairfax. Chap- 
man's Homer, with all it's faults, is also a produc- 
tion of great value and interest. The *' Iliad" is 
written in the cumbrous and unwieldly old English 
measure of fourteen syllables, which, however, the 
Author had the judgment to abandon in the 
" Odyssey y^^ for the heroic measure of ten. The 
following description from the Thirteenth Book of 
the ** Iliad" of Neptune and his chariot, will, 
notwithstanding it's occasional quaintness, suffi- 
ciently prove the power and energy of the Trans- 
lator : — 

d3 



58 LECTURES ON 

*' He took much ruth to see the Greeks from Troy receive 

such ill, 
And mightily incenst with Jove, stoop'd straight from that 

steep hill ; 
That shook as he flevr off, so hard his parting press'd the 

height, 
The woods and all the great hills near, trembled beneath the 

weight 
Of his immortal moving feet : three steps he only took, 
Before he far off ^Egas reach'd ; but with the fourth it 

shook 
With his dread entry. In the depth of those seas he did 

hold 
His bright and glorious Palace, built of never-rusting gold ; 
And there arrived, he put in coach his brazen footed steeds. 
All golden-maned, and paced with wings, and all- in golden 

weeds 
He clothed himself; the golden scourge, most elegantly done. 
He took, and mounted to his seat, and then the God begun 
To drive his chariot through the waves. From whirlpits 

every way 
The whales exulted under him, and knew their King; the 

Sea 
For joy did open, and his horse so light and swiftly flew, 
The under axle-tree of brass no drop of water drew." 



Chapman is remarkable for translating literally 
the compound epithets of the Greeks, which are 
so very striking and powerful in the original ; but 
which, unhappily, cannot be transferred to our 
language with the same felicity. Pope calls Juno 



ENGLISH POETRY. 59 

*' the Goddess of the large majestic eyes," which 
is certainly a somewhat too free amplification of 
the original epithet. Chapman more literally, but 
I am afraid not more happily, calls her *' the cow- 
eyed Queen." 

Crashaw's Translation of Marino's " Sospetti 
d^ Herode^^ is the best, or, I believe the only, 
version in our language, of a work of singular 
beauty and originality ; to which Milton is clearly 
indebted for hints for some of the finest passages 
in " Paradise Lost" These works, together 
with Harrington's Ariosto^ and other translations 
of the same period from the classical and Italian 
Poets, deserve to be much better known to the 
public, at least in the shape of extract and spe- 
cimen. We have been regaled with Specimens of 
old English Ballads, of old English Metrical Ro- 
mances, and of old English Dramatists, and I 
hope that it will not be long before some Editor of 
competent taste and research, will present us with 
Specimens of the old English Translators. 

The Second great name in the annals of English 
Poetry is Milton : which is the First, of course, I 
need not say. Many other Poets have excelled 
him in variety and versatility ; but none ever ap- 
proached him in intensity of style and thought, 
in unity of purpose, and in the powder and grandeur 



60 LECTURES ON 

with which he piles up the single monument of 
Genius, to which his mind is for the time devoted. 
His Harp may have but one string, but that is 
such an one, as none but his own finger knows how 
to touch. " Paradise LosV^ has few inequalities; 
few feeblenesses. It seems not like a work taken 
up and continued at intervals ; but one continuing 
effort ; lasting, perhaps, for years, yet never re- 
mitted : elaborated with the highest polish, yet 
with all the marks of ease and simplicity in it's 
composition. To begin with the least of Milton's 
merits, what Author ever knew how to 

** Untwist all the links that tie 
The hidden soul of Harmony,'' 

as he did? Whence came his knowledge ? What 
rules or system did he proceed upon, in building 
up his magnificent Stanza ? And what has become 
of the discovery which he made ? for assuredly it 
has not been preserved by his successors. There 
is no blank verse worthy of the name, — real 
verse, not measured prose, but the legitimate me- 
dium for the expression of the thoughts and feel- 
ings of Poetry, — beyond the volumes of Milton. 

The peculiar distinguishing feature of Milton's 
Poetry is it's Sublimity. The sublime is reached 



ENGLISH POETRY. 61 

by other Poets when they excel themselves^ and 
hover for a moment amidst unusual brightness; 
but it is Milton's native reign. When he descends, 
it is to meet the greatness of others ; when he 
soars, it is to reach heights unattainable by any 
but himself. The first two Books of ** Paradise 
Lost " are one ' continuous efibrt of unmitigated 
subhmity. I know of no spot, or blemish, or in- 
equality, or falling off, from the beginning of the 
First Book to the close of the Second ; and then, 
how wonderfully fine is the contrast, when the Third 
Book opens with that inimitably pathetic address 
to Light, in which the Poet alludes, with a par- 
donable egotism, to the calamity under which he 
is himself suffering : — 

" Hail holy Light! offspring of Heaven first-born, 
Or of th' eternal co -eternal beam !" 

Because Milton is universally admitted to excel 
in sublimity, some Critics have chosen to deny him 
pathos : but this is the very cant of Criticism, which 
will insist upon it that the faults of every Author 
must balance his excellencies, and which dehghts 
in nothing but antithesis. Thus Shakspeare we are 
told, is a great but irregular Genius ; Jonson is a 
powerful but a rough and coarse writer ; and Mil- 



62 LECTURES ON 

ton is a sublime but not a pathetic Poet : whereas 
the plain fact, obvious to all who take the trouble 
to examine it, is, that Shakspeare is not an irre- 
gular Genius, that Jonson is not a rough or coarse 
writer, that Milton is a pathetic Poet, and a writer 
of powerful, of tremendous pathos. 

Need I, to prove my last assertion, do more 
than direct your attention to Adam's lament after 
his fall ; to Eve's farewell to Paradise ; or to Satan, 
when about to address his adherents, and endea- 
vouring to assume the tone and aspect of a God, 
bursting involuntarily into tears, — " tears such as 
Angels shed," — as the remembrance of the height 
from which he has fallen, forces itself upon his 
memory, and compels this evidence of his weak- 
ness. Milton's descriptive powers are also of the 
highest order. Whether he paints landscape, or 
history, it is with the pencil of a master. The 
burning lake, the bowers of Paradise, Angels 
and Demons, Humanity and Deity, all are pour- 
trayed with unerring fidelity and truth. There are 
indeed few things by which a writer of real Genius 
is more easily known, than by his descriptions. 
This is the most difficult, and the most delightful 
chord of the Poet's harp ; and there is perhaps 
nothing in the whole range of Poetry which gives 
so much unmixed pleasure, as that descriptive of 



ENGLISH POETRY. 63 

natural objects ; while, at the same time, in no- 
thing is a depraved taste, or a defect of genius, 
sooner discovered, or more intolerable. A great 
fault into which descriptive writers too commonly 
fall, is the vagueness and indistinctness of their 
pictures : they have no specific likeness. Every 
thing is described in generals. No new ideas are 
conveyed to the mind ; but a dim and shadowy 
phantom seems to haunt the brain of the writer. 
This arises, either from ignorance of the objects 
described, or from a want of Taste to seize and 
appropriate their characteristic features. Whoever 
enjoys but faint and imperfect conceptions himself, 
must fail in presenting any very vivid or striking 
pictures to others. If we were to cause the repre- 
sentations of many of our modern Poets to be 
faithfully transferred to the canvas, we should 
quickly discover how defective and unnatural, how 
utterly shapeless and monstrous, some of their 
most celebrated delineations are. 

Opposed to this fault, is another equally fatal, 
which descends so minutely and curiously into par- 
ticulars, neither governed by taste in the selection, 
or judgment in the appropriation of circumstances, 
that, instead of a noble picture, we are presented 
with a piece of fantastical patchwork. Such 
writers stand in much the same relation to the 



64 LECTURES ON 

masters of descriptive Poetry, as a book of the 
roads in the neighbourhood of Claude*s most cele- 
brated scenes, to his enchanting paintings. The 
following extract from Cowley will sufficiently il- 
lustrate what I mean. It is a description of the 
Angel Gabriel, as he appeared to David : — 

" He took for skin, a cloud most soft and bright, 
That ere the mid-day Sun pierced through with light ; 
Upon his cheeks a lively blush he spread, 
Wash'd from the Morning's beauties' deepest red ; 
An harmless flaming meteor shone for hair. 
And fell adown his shoulders with loose care ; 
He cuts out a silk mantle from the skies, 
Where the most sprightly azure pleased the eyes ; 
This he with starry vapours sprinkles all. 
Took in their prime, ere they grow ripe and fall ; 
Of a new rainbow ere it fret or fade. 
The choicest piece cut off, a scarf is made." 

Dr. Johnson justly says, that *^ Cowley could not 
let us go till he had related where Gabriel got first 
his skin, and then his mantle, then his lace, and then 
his scarf, and related it in the terms of the Mercer 
and Tailor." But how happily, on the contrary, 
has Milton described the same object, " a Seraph 
winged :" — 

" Six wings he wore to shade 
His lineaments divine. The pair that clad 



ENGLISH POETRY. ' G5 

i 

Each shoulder broad, came mantling o'er his breast j 

With regal ornament ; the middle pair ; 
Girt like a starry zone his waist, and round, 
Skirted his loins and thighs with downy gold. 
And colours dipt in heaven ; the third his feet 

Shadow'd from either heel with feather'd mail, | 

Sky-tinctured grain. Like Maia's son he stood, ] 

And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance fill'd | 

The circuit wide." ) 

The same immortal master has touched with a yet ; 

finer and more delicate pencil, the persons of our 

first parents in Paradise : — ■ 

" Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall, ■ 

Godlike erect, with native honour clad, ; 

In naked majesty, seemM lords of all ; ', 

And worthy seemM ; for in their looks divine ; 

The image of their glorious Maker shone ; j 

Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure, i 

Severe, but in true filial freedom placed, ■ 

Whence true authority in men ; though both 1 

Not equal, as their sex not equal seem'd : j 

For contemplation he, and valour form'd ; ] 

For softness she, and sweet attractive grace ; I 

He for God only, she for God in him. I 
His fair large front, and eye sublime, declared 
Absolute rule ; and hyacinthine locks 

Round from his parted forelock manly hung ; 

Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad ^ i 

She as a veil, down to her slender waist, 1 
Her unadorned golden tresses wore 



bb LECTURES ON 

Dishevell'd, but in wanton ringlets waved, 
As the vine curls her tendrils." 

Cowley is one of the earliest names of eminence 
in the history of English Lyrical Poetry, and it is 
principally in reading his Odes that we lament 
those metaphysical conceits, which obscure the 
reputation of a genius of first-rate ability. But 
" the hght that led astray was light from Heaven." 
His very faults are the offspring of Genius ; they 
are the exuberances of a mind " o'er- informed 
with meaning ;" the excrescences of a tree, whose 
waste foliage, if properly pruned and arranged, 
would form an immortal wreath on the brows of 
any humbler genius. But he now claims our 
notice in another character, that of a Narrative 
Poet, as the Author of the ** Davideis; or, the 
Trouhles of David,'' a Sacred Poem ; a character 
in which it must be confessed he appears to far 
less advantage than as a Lyrical Poet. The 
" Davideis" is much more disfigured by far-fetched 
conceits than even his Odes ; and they offend still 
more against good Taste, when we find them 
mixed up with the sobriety of narration, than when 
they mingle in his Pindaric ecstacies. The narra- 
tive itself is also heavy and uninteresting ; there are 
no strongly drawn or predominating characters; 



ENGLISH POETRY. 67 

and the Allegorical personages, who are the chief 
actors, do not, of course, excite any strong in- 
terest, or greatly arrest the attention. Still there 
are many scattered beauties throughout the Poem ; 
many original ideas, and much brilliant versifica- 
tion. The following is very sweetly expressed : — 



Of lemon trees, which there did proudly grow, 

And with bright stores of golden fruit repay 

The light they drank from the Sun's neighbouring ray, 

A small but artful Paradise, they walk'd, 

And hand in hand, sad, gentle things they talk'd.'* 

The account of the Creation is also full of 
eloquence and Poetry :— 

" They sung how God spoke-out the World's vast ball, 
From nothing ; and from nowhere call'd forth all. 
No Nature yet, or place for't to possess, 
But an unbottom'd gulph of emptiness ; 
Full of himself, th' Almighty sate, his own 
Palace, and without solitude, alone. 
But he was goodness whole, and all things will'd ; 
Which ere they were, his active word fulfilled : 
And their astonish'd heads o' th' sudden rear'd ; 
An unshaped kind of something first appeared. 
Confessing it's new being, and undrest, 
As if it stepp'd in haste before the rest ; 
Yet, buried in this matter's darksome womb, 
Lay the rich seeds of every thing to come ; 



€0 LECTURES ON 

From hence the cheerful flame leap'd up so high, 

Close at it's heels the nimble air did fly ; 

Dull Earth with his own weight did downwards pierce 

To the fix'd navel of the Universe, 

And was quite lost in waters ; till God said 

To the proud Sea, ' Shrink in your insolent head ; 

See how the gaping Earth has made you place !' 

That durst not murmur, but shrunk in apace : 

Since when, his bounds are set ; at which in vain 

He foams and rages, and turns back again. 

With richer stuff he bade Heaven's fabric shine, 

And from him a quick spring of light divine 

Swell'd up the Sun, from whence his cherishing flame 

Fills the whole world, like him from whom it came. 

He smjDoth'd the rough-cast Moon's imperfect mould, 

And comb'd her beamy locks with sacred gold : 

* Be thou,^ said he, ' Queen of the mournful Night!* 

And as he spake, she rose, clad o'er in light. 

With thousand Stars attending in her train. 

With her they rise, with her they set again. 

Then Herbs peep'd forth, now Trees admiring stood, 

And smelling Flowers painted the infant wood ; 

Then flocks of birds through the glad air did flee, 

Joyful, and safe before Man's luxury; 

Singing their Maker in their untaught lays : 

Nay the mute Fish witness no less his praise ; 

For those he made, and clothed with silver scales, 

From Minnows to those living islands. Whales. 

Beasts, too, were his command ; what could he more ? 

Yes, Man he could, the bond of all before ; 

In him he all things with strange order hurl'd, 

In him that full abridgment of the World !" 



ENGLISH POETRY. 69 

There are likewise many beautiful Lyrical pieces 
introduced. The following in which David speaks 
of his love for Saul's daughter is a perfect gem : — 

" Awake, awake iny Lyre ! 
And tell thy silent master's humble tale, 
In sounds that may prevail ; 

Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire : 
Though so exalted she, 
And I so lowly be, 
Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony ! 

Hark ! how the strings awake ! 
And though the moving hand approach not near. 
Themselves with awful fear 

A kind of numerous trembling make : 
Now all thy forces try, 
Now all thy charms apply, 
Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. 

Weak Lyre ! thy virtue sure 
Is useless here, since thou art only found 
To cure, but not to wound ; 

And she to wound but not to cure : 
Too weak too wilt thou prove 
My passion to remove, 
Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to Love. 

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre ! 
For thou can'st never tell my humble tale, 
In sounds that will prevail ; 

Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire ; 
All thy vain mirth lay by, 
Bid thy strings silent lie ; 
Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre! and let thy master die !" 



70 LECTURES ON 

Unhappily, however,— 

" Men's evil manners live in brass, 
Their virtues we w^rite in water :" — 



The ** Davideis^^ is now seldom quoted; and 
when it is noticed, it is not for the purpose of re- 
calling to our recollection the brilliant passages 
which I have just cited. If the Poem live at all 
in the memory of the general reader, it is by rea- 
son of two ridiculous lines, descriptive of the 
sword of Goliath : — 

" A Sword so great, that it was only fit 

To cut off his great head that came with it!" 

In discussing the merits of our remaining Nar- 
rative Poets, I shall be necessarily brief. Dave- 
nant's " Gondibert'* is very defective both in inte- 
rest and passion. As a Narrative, it is not entitled 
to any high praise ; though there are passages in 
it replete with beautiful imagery, and genuine 
and unaffected sentiment. We have not, how- 
ever, space for any quotations; and Dry den's 
*' Fahles" and his ** JE^neid," are too generally 
known to need any. That Author's fame as a 
Narrative Poet rests upon these. The matter is 
all borrowed. The ** Fables'^ are as much trans- 
lations from Boccacio, and Chaucer^ as his 



ENGLISH POETRY. 71 

" ^neid" is from Virgil. The matter, 1 have 
said, is not Dryden's, but the manner is all his 
own ; and in that their great charm consists. The 
energy, the beauty, the power, the majesty, and 
the delicacy of his style, are unrivalled. His 
versification is even now, notwithstanding the 
efforts of his successors^ Pope, Goldsmith, Camp- 
bell, and Byron, the noblest and most perfect in 
our language. As Milton in blank verse, so 
Dryden in the heroic rhymed measure, is without 
a competitor or even an approximator. 

** Waller was smooth, but Dryden taught to join 
The -varying verse, the full resounding line, 
The long majestic march, and energy divine.'* 

The Translations of Rowe, Pitt, Pope, and 
Mickle, have enriched our language with the 
noblest monuments of the genius of foreign nations. 
To Rowe and Pitt may be assigned the merit of 
fidelity, and of considerable powers in versification. 
Pope and Mickle, the former especially, are very 
splendid writers: though the latter must rank 
among the most unfaithful of translators. Of Pope 
I have already spoken at some length, and we shall 
hereafter have occasion to consider his merits as a 
Didactic, and Descriptive Poet. I shall therefore, 
not now enter into any discussion of the subject. 



72 LECTURES ON 

Glover's '' XeomWas" I have also already no- 
ticed; and the Epics of Wilkie and Blackmore, 
are really not worth our attention. The latter has 
made himself immortal by two memorable lines, 
which will suffice as a specimen of his merits : — 

'* A painted vest Prince Vortigern had on, 
Which from a naked Pict his grandsire won!" 

The authenticity of the Poems ascribed to Ossian, 
is a subject full of doubt and intricacy, into the 
mazes of which it is not my intention to enter. It 
is difficult to believe that Poems formed so nearly 
upon the Aristotlean rules, should have been 
produced in an age, and amongst a people, where 
those rules were totally unknown : it is still more 
difficult to beheve that such Poems, never having 
been written, should have been preserved through 
so many ages, by oral tradition alone : but, per- 
haps, an attentive reader would declare that, all 
circumstances considered, it would be the greatest 
difficulty of all to believe, that the whole is a 
modern invention. The absence of all traces of 
Keligion, however, in these Poems, is a very 
singular fact, and strikes me as a strong argument 
against their authenticity ; as the Poetical compo- 
sitions of all other nations are so closely connected 



ENGLISH POETRY. 73 

with their mythology. The rocky steeps of Morven 
too, do not seem to be a very appropriate scene 
for the exploits of " car-borne'^ heroes; and Mr. 
Wordsworth adds his own personal experience, 
and it is a high authority, against the probability 
of the genuineness of Ossian's Poems, by saying, 
that no man who has been born and bred up 
among mountain scenery, as Ossian was, would 
describe it as he has done. This objection, how- 
ever, cuts both ways. These Poems were written, 
if not by Ossian, by Macpherson, and Macpherson 
was himself an Highlander. I have also heard 
more than one Landscape Painter of eminence, 
well acquainted with the scenery of the Poems, — 
and such evidence I cannot help considering of 
considerable weight, — bear testimony to the power 
and fidelity of Ossian's descriptions. The beauty 
and merit of the Poems is, however, a question 
quite independent of their authenticity. For my- 
self, I confess that the most popular and most 
often quoted passages are not my greatest fa- 
vourites. Ossian's most laboured efforts do not 
strike me as his best. It is in a casual expression, 
in a single simple incident, that he often startles 
us by the originality and force of his ideas. What 
a picture of desolation does he force upon our 
imagination when describing the ruins of Balclutha 

E 



74 LECTURES ON 

by that one unlaboured, but powerful incident: — 
** The fox looked out from the window." The 
ghost of Crugal, the dim and shadowy visitant 
from another world, is also painted by a single 
stroke of the pencil: — " The stars dim twinkled 
through his form:" and the early death of Cormac 
is prophesied in a simile as original, as it is power- 
ful : — *' Death stands dim behind thee, like the 
darkened half of the moon behind it's growing 
light." Had Ossian, or the Author of the pieces 
ascribed to him, written nothing but the three 
passages which I have just cited, he would have 
proved himself a genuine Poet. 

The grand characteristic of Ossian is pathos, as 
that of Homer is invention, and that of Milton is 
sublimity. Whether he describes scenery, or deli- 
neates character, or narrates events, tenderness is 
the predominating feeling excited in the mind. 
His battle-pieces impress us more with compassion 
for the vanquished, than admiration for the victor. 
We feel more sympathy for the sufferings of his 
heroines, than we do of delight at their beauty. 
His heroes, if young, are cut off before their fame 
is achieved ; or if old, have survived their strength 
and prowess. Even Fingal himself, is at last 
shewn to us as a feeble ghost, lamenting the loss 
of his mortal fame and vigour. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 75 

I have placed Chatterton amongst the narrative 
Poets, although he also wrote Dramatic, lyrical, 
and didactic pieces. JPerhaps there never was a 
more slender veil of forgery attempted, than that 
which he threw around his pretended ancient pro- 
ductions. He has written in the language of no 
one age, but in a piebald diction of all ; made up 
of the phrases and idioms of various periods, and 
the reader has often nothing to do, but to strip his 
verses of their antique spelling, and he finds the 
language precisely that which is used in the present 
day. Take for instance, the opening of the Song 
of 'Ella:— 



" When Freedom drest in blood-stain'd vest, 
To every land her "War-song sung ; 
Upon her head wild weeds were spread, 
A gory anlace by her hung.'* 



The Poems themselves bear internal evidence of 
their being the productions of a boy; of a mar- 
vellous boy indeed, but still of a boy. There are 
no traces of experience, of long observation, of a 
knowledge of Human nature, and indeed of ac- 
quirement of any sort. Of strong natural powers, 
of talent, of genius, every page furnishes us with 
abundant instances. Chatterton's forte I think 

E 2 



76 LECTURES ON 

was pathos ; and had not his mortal career closed 
so prematurely, he would probably have devoted 
himself to Lyrical Poetry. What he has left 
behind him, is full of genius ; but full of inequa- 
lities and faults. We have hardly sufficient data 
to enable us to judge what Chatterton's real cha- 
racter, moral or literary, — and it is difficult to se- 
parate them in our enquiry, — was, or would have 
been. I, for one, cannot help thinking, that the 
vices of the former were adventitious, and that the 
imperfections of the latter would have been ob- 
viated, or removed. His tale is but half told. 
Had not the curtain dropt so abruptly on the hero 
of the Drama, succeeding scenes might have shewn 
him triumphing over all his follies, and atoning 
for all his faults. His ruling passion was the love 
of fame. The progress of Fame is like the course 
of the Thames, which in ft's native fields will 
scarcely float the toy-ship which an infant's hand 
has launched, but when it has once visited the 
metropolis, mighty vessels ride upon it's bosom, 
and it rolls on irresistibly to the ocean. This 
Chatterton knew; and, in a blind confidence on 
his own unaided powers, rushed to the capital in 
pursuit of fame and competence. The result we all 
know was neglect, penury, and self-destruction. 
Narrative Poetry has of late been a favourite 



ENGLISH POETRY. 77 

and popular study, and has employed the pens of 
all the most eminent of our living writers. Although 
the limits which I have prescribed to myself in 
these Lectures, do not permit to discuss their 
merits, I may be allowed to say, that the Narra- 
tive writers of the present day, have done much 
to wean the public taste from the meretricious 
school by which it was directed half a century ago, 
and bring it back to a wholesome appreciation of 
the powers of those genuine old English Poets, 
whose teacher was Nature^ and whose study was 
the human heart. 



78 LECTURES ON 



LECTURE THE THIRD. 



DRAMATIC POETRY. 

Origin of the Drama :— Old English Mysteries and Moralities: 
— Gorboduc and Gammer Gurton's Needle ^ the first English 
Tragedy and Comedy : — The Predecessors of Shakspeare : 
— Dramatic Writers of the Reigns of Elizabeth and James 
the First : — Shakspeare : — Dissertation on the excellence 
of his Female Characters and Clowns : — Jonson : — The 
Beauty of the Lyrical parts of Jonson's Dramas : — His 
Tragedy of Catiline : — Cartwright : — Beaumont and 
Fletcher : — Massinger : — Ford and Webster. 

My last Lecture treated of the Epic and Narra- 
tive Poets ; I shall now briefly review the merits 
of the Dramatic Poets who flourished previous to 
the Restoration. Although, in a period of elegance 
and refinement, there is not a more certain ** sign 
of the times" than a taste for Dramatic entertain- 
ments, yet the fact is, that these had their origin 
in the rudest, and most uninformed ages of society. 
In ancient Greece, Thespis, the Father of Tragedy, 
represented his Dramas on a sort of cart, or 
moveable stage, which was drawn from place to 



ENGLISH POETRY. 79 

place ; and his Actors sang and danced alternately, 
with their faces smeared with wine-lees :— 



*' Ignotiun Tragicae genus invenisse camoenae 
Dicitur, et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis, 
Quae canerent agerentque peruncti foecibus ora/' 

HoR. Art. Poet. 



In England, in the same manner, the original 
of those magnificent structures which are now 
dedicated to the Dramatic Muses, were moveable 
pageants, drawn about upon wheels ; after which, 
the court-yards of inns and hostelries were chosen 
for Dramatic representations ; the floor forming what 
we now call the Pit of the Theatre, and the Balco- 
nies, or galleries around, being occupied as the Boxes 
and the Stage ; and public Theatres do not appear 
to have been regularly erected till about the begin- 
ning of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. The Drama, 
it is also worthy of remark, although it has become 
the theme of constant depreciation among modern 
Puritans, as it was formerly among the ancient 
Philosophers, had ifs origin in Religious ceremo- 
nies. The Hymns, or Odes, sung in honour of 
Bacchus, and other Deities in Greece, and the 
Mysteries and Moralities of Monkish times in 
England, were the rude foundations on which 



80 LECTURES ON 

were erected the splendid superstructures of jEs- 
chylus, and Euripides, and Sophocles ; of Shaks- 
peare, of Fletcher, and of Otway. In the bouses 
of the great it was as much the custom of the 
Chaplain to compose Plays for the families, as it 
now is to write Sermons; and Sunday was a day 
frequently appropriated for the representation of 
dramatic entertainments. Modern readers shudder 
at the impiety of the ancients, who represented 
their Gods in propria persona upon the Stage, 
while it is not less true, although less generally 
known, that in our own country, the Divine per- 
sons of the Trinity, the good and evil Angels, 
the Prophets, and the Apostles, were in the same 
manner personated in the English Theatres. 

The first regular Comedy which appeared in 
England was ** Gammer Gurtons Needle.^^ The 
precise time of it's representation is unknown, 
but an edition of it is said by Chetwood, to have 
been printed in 1551 ; and the copy which Dodsley 
used for his collection of Old Plays was printed 
in 1575. *' In this Play," says Hawkins, " there 
is a vein of familiar humour, and a kind of 
grotesque imagery, not unUke some parts of 
Aristophanes ; but without those graces of language 
and metre, for which the Greek Comedian is so 
eminently distinguished." There is certainly much 



ENGLISH POETRY. 81 

whim and wit in many of the situations; and 
the characters, although rudely, are very forcibly 
delineated. The plot is simple and coarse enough. 
Gammer Gurton has lost her needle, and, just 
when she despairs of ever finding it, it is dis- 
covered sticking to part of her servant Hodge's 
breeches, which she had been lately employed in 
mending. The fine old Song, beginning *' Back 
and sides, go bare, go bare," with which the 
Second Act of this Play opens, is of itself suffi- 
cient to rescue it from oblivion. 

Lord Buckhurst's '* Gorhoduc^' is the first re- 
gular Tragedy which ever appeared in England. 
The plot is meagre and uninteresting; the dic- 
tion cumbrous and heavy ; and the characters ill 
conceived, and hastily drawn. The dawn of 
English Tragedy was, therefore, as gloomy as 
it's meridian was splendid. George Peele, the 
Author of " The Loves of King David and Fair 
Bethsahe" was a Writer of a very different stamp ; 
and, although not possessing much force and 
originality, there is a vein of pathos and unaffected 
feeling in this Play, and a sweetness and flow of 
versification, which we look for in vain in the 
writings of his contemporaries. Lily, v/ho turned 
the heads of the people by his Euphuism, which 
has been so happily ridiculed by Sir Walter Scott, 

e3 



82 LECTURES ON 

in his character of SirPiercieShafton, in the "l/o= 
nastery,''* was nevertheless an Author of distin- 
guished merit; and in his " Cupid and Campaspe,'' 
especially, we find touches of genuine Poetry, 
and unsophisticated nature. " The Spanish Tra- 
gedy , or, Hieronimo is mad again,^* by Thomas 
Kyd, is valuable for one Scene only, which is 
supposed to have been interpolated by a later 
hand, and has been attributed by various com- 
mentators to Jonson, to Webster, and to Shaks- 
peare. It is not unworthy of either of those 
writers ; but is most probably the property of the 
first, to whom, as has been ascertained by a dis- 
covery made a few years since at Dulwich College, 
two sundry payments were made by the Theatre, 
for additions to this Tragedy. Hieronimo, whose 
son has been murdered, goes distracted, and 
wishes a Painter to represent the fatal catastrophe 
upon canvas. He finds that the Artist is suffbring 
under a bereavement similar to his own; and there 
is something powerfully affecting in the following 
dialogue : — 

" The Painter enters. 
Paint. God bless you, Sir ! 
Hieron. Wherefore ? why, thou scornful villain \ 
How, where, or by what means should I be blest ? 
Isab. What would you have, good fellow? 



ENGLISH POETRY. 83 

Paint, Justice, madam. 

Hieron. Oh ! ambitious fellow, would'st thou have that 
That lives not in the world ? 
Why all the undelved mines cannot buy 
An ounce of justice ; 'tis a jewel so inestimable. 
I tell thee, God has engross'd all justice in his hand, 
And there is none but what comes from him. 

Paint. Oh ! then I see that God must right rae for my mur- 
der'd son ! 

Hieron. How ! was thy son murder'd ? 

Paint. Ay, Sir ; no man did hold a son so dear, 

Hieron. What ! not as thine ? That's a lie 
As massy as the earth ! I had a Son, 
Whose least unvalued hair did weigh 
A thousand of thy Son's ! and he was murder'd ! 

Paint. Alas ! Sir, I had no more but he. 

Hieron. Nor I, nor I; but this same one of mine 
Was worth a legion." 

The nature and simplicity of this Scene is worth 
all the ambitious imagery, and rhetorical ornaments 
which modern Authors lavish upon their Dramas. 
It reminds us of that fine burst of natural passion 
of Lear, — 

" Lear. Did'st thou give all to thy daughters ? 
Kent. He hath no daughters. Sir. 

Lear. Death, traitor ! nothing could hava reduced nature 
To such a lowness, but his unkind daughters," 

But by far the mightiest Dramatic Genius who 
preceded Shakspeare, was Christopher Marlowe. 



84 LECTURES ON 

This extraordinary Author is an anomaly in Lite- 
rature. With innumerable faults, and those of the 
worst kind, frequently displaying turgidity and 
bombast in his Tragic scenes, and buffoonery and 
grossnessin his Comic ones, he nevertheless evinces 
in many places, not only powerful genius, but se- 
vere taste, and fastidious judgment. Nothing 
can be worse than " Lusfs Dominion" and ** The 
Mighty Tamhurlaine ;^ and nothing can be finer 
than many parts of *' Edward the Second,'' and 
'* Doctor Faustiis." Mr. Charles Lamb says, 
truly, that the former Tragedy furnished hints 
which Shakspeare scarcely improved in his 
** Richard the Second." We may say the same 
thing of the latter, with reference to Goethe, and 
his "Faust." The Tragedy of Goethe is more 
connected, and better sustained throughout, than 
that of Marlowe. It is not chargeable with the 
same inequalities, and keeps up the character of 
the Hero, as a Soul lost by the thirst after know- 
ledge^ instead of representing him, as the English 
Author too often does, in the light of a vulgar 
conjurer indulging in tricks of legerdemain ; though 
we doubt whether there is any thing in the German 
Play, which approaches the sublimity and awful- 
ness of the last scene in ** Doctor Faustus." 
At length the great Literary era of Elizabeth 



ENGLISH POETRY. 85 

dawned upon Britain ; and in the Dramatic annals 
of the Nation, we no longer find a few stars faintly 
twinkling amidst the surrounding darkness, but a 
magnificent constellation, composed of Shakspeare, 
Beaumont, Fletcher, Jonson, Ford, Webster, Mas- 
singer, Rowley, Chapman, Middleton, Dekker, 
Tourneur, Shirley, and others, brightening the whole 
Literature hemisphere with a blaze of glory. 
In addition to these names, which belong almost 
exclusively to Dramatic Literature, we may enu- 
merate those of Spenser, Hall, Brown, Drummond, 
Sidney, and Raleigh, in other branches of Poetry. 
The period during which these illustrious men 
flourished has been distinguished by the name of 
Elizabeth, although it is only to the latter part of 
her reign, and to those of her two immediate suc- 
cessors, that most of them properly belong. 

The merits of Shakspeare are now so well, and 
so generally appreciated, that it can scarcely be 
necessary to enter into any detail of them. It is, 
however, extraordinary, that in a Nation which 
has exulted so much in his genius, and has pro- 
fessed to derive so much of it's Literary glory from 
his fame, his merits should, until very recently, 
have been so imperfectly known. Steele, in one 
of the '* Tatlers,'' bestows some very high en- 
comiums upon a justly celebrated passage in 



86 LECTURES ON 

^* Macbeth" and then gives a miserably erroneous 
quotation, from some garbled Stage Edition, then 
extant. 

The opinion which prevailed until within the 
last half century, that Shakspeare had failed in his 
delineation of Female Character, is also a striking 
and decisive proof of the general ignorance re- 
specting the real merits of our immortal Bard. 
On the Stage, and in quotations, he was well 
known, but it is only very recently, that Readers 
have taken the trouble to explore this vast mine of 
intellectual lore for themselves; and though we 
now rank those beautiful pictures, both serious 
and comic, which the Poet has drawn in Lady 
Macbeth, Constance, Juliet, Imogen, Cleopatra, 
Rosalind, and Beatrice, as amongst the happiest 
efforts of his Genius, yet many years have not 
gone by, since it was a popular opinion, that his 
mind was of too masculine a structure to excel in 
pictures of Female grace and loveliness ; and that 
it was only in his Male characters, that his won- 
derful genius developed itself. This opinion, too, 
was not confined to the vulgar and uninformed. 
Men of taste and education were content to take 
up the current opinion, without examining ifs 
truth ; and we accordingly find that even Collins, 
whose genius in some particulars discovered a 



ENGLISH POETRY. 87 

strong affinity to that of Shakspeare himself, in 
his ** Epistle to Sir Thomas Hanmer" after 
eulogizing the Female Characters of Fletcher, 
adds, — • 

" But stronger Shakspeare felt for Man alone." 

In truth, Shakspeare's Females are creations of 
a very different stamp from those which have been 
immediately popular in histrionic records. Their 
sorrows are not obstreperous and theatrical, but, — 

" The still sad music of Humanity," — 

as Wordsworth hath finely phrased it, — is heard 
throughout all their history. The Poet's descrip- 
tion of a Lover, — 

" All made of passion, and all made of wishes ; 
All adoration, duty, and obedience ; 
All humbleness, all patience, and impatience ; 
All purity, all trial, all observance ;" 

will apply as well to his delineations of Woman. 
Sighs, tears, passion, trial, and humility, are the 
component parts of her character ; and however 
the Dramatic Writer may endeavour to " elevate 
and surprise," by pursuing a different course, these 



88 LECTURES ON 

are the materials with which Nature will furnish 
him ; and, if he really wish to follow her, ** to this 
complexion he must come at last." Shakspeare 
reconciled Poetry and Nature ; he borrowed her 
wildest wing of Romance, and yet stooped to the 
severest discipline of Truth ; he revelled in the 
impossible, without violating- the probable; he 
preserved the unity of character, while he spurned 
the unities of time, place, and action ; and com- 
bined propriety, nature, truth, and feehng, with 
wildness, extravagance, and an unbounded license 
of Imagination. 

The general cast of character in Shakspeare's 
Females is tenderness and pathos ; but this is not 
because our Author was unable to depict Woman 
in her more dignified and commanding, though 
less ordinary, altitude. Thus, there is nothing 
more majestic, and, we may say, awful, on the 
Stage, than Katharine defending herself against 
the malice and hypocrisy of Henry ; and nothing 
more fearful and appalling than the whole character 
of Lady Macbeth, from the first Scene in which 
her ambition is awakened, by the perusal of her 
Husband's letter, to the last, in which we discover 
it's bitter fruits, in treason, murder, and insanity. 
Then there is the Lady Constance, a Woman, a 
Mother, and a Princess ; seen in all the fearful 



ENGLISH POETRY. 89 

vicissitudes of human life ; hoping, exulting, 
blessing, fearing, weeping, despairing, and, at 
last, dying. Shall we add the Weird Sisters, 
those ** foul anomalies," in whom all that is ma- 
lignant and base in the female character is exagge- 
rated to an unearthly stature, and those gentler 
beings, such as Juliet and Desdemona, who, with 
frailties and imperfections which ally them to earth, 
yet approximate to those superior and benevolent 
spirits, of whom we have such an exquisite picture 
in Ariel f and the Fairies in the " Midsummer 
Night's Dream ?" Cleopatra, Volumnia, and 
Isabella, are further instances of Shakspeare's 
power of exhibiting the loftier and stronger traits 
of the Female character. His picture of the 
fascinating Egyptian Queen is, indeed^ a master- 
piece. In perusing it, we feel no longer astonished 
that crowns and empires were sacrificed for her. 
'• The soft Triumvir's fault'* is easily ** forgiven." 
We no longer wonder at, we scarcely pity him, 
so splendid is the prize for which he is content to — 

" Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch 
Of the ranged empire fall \" 

The Reader — for this is not on the list of acting- 
plays, — is himself caught in the golden snare. 



90 LECTURES ON 

The Play is occupied with battles and treaties, 
with wars and commotions, with the quarrels of 
Monarchs, and the destinies of the world, yet all 
are forgotten when Cleopatra is on the Scene. 
We have many and splendid descriptions of her 
personal charms, but it is her mind, the strength 
of her passion, the fervour and fury of her love, 
the bitterness of her hatred, and the desperation 
of her death, which take so strong a hold upon the 
imagination. We follow her, admire her, sympa- 
thize with her, through all, and when the Asp has 
done it's fatal work, who does not exclaim with 
Charmion ?— 

" Now boast thee, Death ! in thy possession lies 
A lass unparallel'd ! " 

How different a being from this, is the ill-fated 
fair who slumbers in " the tomb of the Capulets." 
She is all gentleness and mildness, all hidden 
passion, and silent suffering; but her love is as 
ardent, her sorrows are as overwhelming, and her 
death as melancholy. ** The gentle lady wedded 
to the Moor" is another sweet, still picture, which 
we contemplate with admiration, until Death 
drops his curtain over it. Imogen and Miranda, 
Perdita and Ophelia, Cordelia, Helen, and Viola, 



ENGLISH POETRY. 91 

need only be mentioned to recal to the mind the 
most fascinating pictures of female character which 
have ever been delineated. The last is a mere 
sketch, but it is a most charming one ; and it's best 
description is that exquisite paraphrase, in which 
the character is so beautifully summed up : — 

** She never told her love. 
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, 
Feed on her damask cheek. She pined in thought, 
And \7ith a green and yellov? melancholy, 
She sat, like Patience on a monument, 
Smiling at Grief.'' 

Of Shakspeare's Comic Female Characters, it 
will be sufficient to adduce two, Rosalind and 
Beatrice. What a fascinating creature is the first ! 
what an admirable compound of wit^ gaiety, and 
good humour! blended, at the same time, v/ith 
deep and strong passion, with courage and resolu- 
tion ; with unshaken affection to her Father, and 
constant and fervent love for Orlando. How 
extraordinary and romantic is this character, if we 
contemplate it in the abstract, yet how beautiful and 
true to Nature, if we examine it in all it's details. 
Beatrice is a character of a very different stamp 
from Rosalind, although resembling her in some 
particulars. She has all her wit ; but, it must be 



92 LECTURES ON 

confessed, without her good humour. Her arrows 
are not merely piercing, but poisoned. Rosalind's 
is cheerful raillery, Beatrice' Sy satirical bitterness ; 
Rosalind is not only afraid to strike, but unwilling 
to wound : Beatrice is, at least, careless of the 
effect of her wit, if she can but find an opportu- 
nity to utter it. But Shakspeare has no heartless 
characters in his Dramas, he has no mere '* intel- 
lectual gladiators," as Dr. Johnson has well styled 
the Actors in the witty scenes of Congreve. Bea- 
trice has strong and easily excited feelings. Love 
is called into action by the stratagem of the garden 
scene; and rage, indignation, and revenge, by 
the slanders cast upon her cousin. We have 
heard the character called inconsistent, but what 
is human nature but a tissue of inconsistencies? or 
rather, are not our hopes, fears, affections, and 
passions, linked together by a thread so fine, that 
only the gifted eye of such a Poet as Shakspeare 
can discover it? The changes of purpose and 
passion, as developed by him in the mind of Bea- 
trice are anything but inconsistencies ; abrupt and 
surprising they certainly are, but they are ac- 
counted for by motives of extraordinary weight, 
and feelings of singular susceptibility. 

Before I close this subject, however, I would 
say a few words upon the neglected Play of 



ENGLISH POETRY. 9?l 

*' Pericles;" first, because it contains a very sweet 
and interesting Female character, — that oi Marina, 
the heroine, — and, secondly, because it's authen- 
ticity has been questioned by the commentators. 
This Drama has always clearly appeared to me to 
be a production of Shakspeare, although certainly 
a production of his earlier years. The inconsis- 
tency and confusion of the plot, and the inartificial 
manner in which many of the events are brought 
about, prove it to be the work of a novice in the 
art; but the delicate touches of Nature, the beau- 
tiful delineations of character, the sweet flow of 
it's verse, and the rich vein of poetry and imagina- 
tion, which pervade the whole, betray the master's 
hand, and entitle it, in my opinion, to a high rank 
among the works of Shakspeare. How fine, for 
instance, is the following soliloquy of Pericles, on 
a Ship at sea : — 

" Thou God of the great vast! rebuke these surges 

Which wash both Heaven and Hell ; and Thou, that hast 

Upon the Winds command, bind them in brass, 

Having call'd them from the deep ! Oh ! still thy deaf'ning. 

Thy dreadful thunders ! gently quench thy nimble, 

Sulphureous flashes ! Thou storm ! thou, venomously, 

Wilt thou spit all thyself? The seaman's whistle 

Is as a whisper in the ears of death, 

Unheard." 



94 LECTURES ON 

The description of the recovery of Thaisa from a 
state of suspended animation, is also most power- 
fully eloquent : — 

" Nature awakes ; a warmth 
Breathes out of her ; she hath not been entranced 
Above five hours. See how she 'gins to blow 
Into life's flower again ! — She is alive ; behold, 
Her eyelids, cases to those heavenly jewels 
Which Pericles hath lost, 
Begin to part their fringes of bright gold, 
The diamonds of a most praised water 
Appear to make the world twice rich." 

Marina^ the daughter of Pericles, is born at sea, 
during a storm ; and our Author, in this Drama, 
as in the '^ Winter's TaleJ^ leaps over the inter- 
vening years, and shews her, in the fourth Act, 
'• on the eve of womanhood ;" where her first 
speech, on the death of her Nurse, is sweetly 
plaintive and poetical : — 

" No, no ; I will rob Tellus of her weed 
To strew thy grave with flowers ! the yellows, blues, 
The purple violets, and marygolds, 
Shall as a chaplet hang upon thy grave. 
While Summer-days do last. Ah me ! poor maid, 
Born in a tempest, when my mother died, 
This world to me is like a lasting storm, 
Whirring me from my friends." 



ENGLISH POETRY. - 95 

In the course of the Play, Marina undergoes 
a variety of adventures, in all of which the mingled 
gentleness and dignity of her character is most 
admirably developed. The interview with her 
Father, in the fifth Act, is, indeed, one of the 
most powerful and affecting passages in the whole 
range of the British Drama ; and I earnestly re- 
commend all who are unacquainted with this Play 
to peruse it immediately, and judge for themselves, 
whether the mighty hand of Shakspeare be not 
visible throughout. 

The preceding observations have, T hope, suflB- 
ciently shewn^ not only the great power and skill 
of Shakspeare in his delineation of Females, but 
also that he exhibits as great resources, and as 
much fertility of genius in them, as in any of the 
other characters of his Dramas. The Champions 
who have hitherto broken a lance in favour of this 
cause, have usually confined their observations to 
the gracefulness and gentleness of Juliet, and 
Imogen, and Desde?7iona, but when we remember 
that the same pencil has painted so many, and 
such diametrically opposite characters, then I say, 
that if Shakspeare had never given us a single 
masculine portrait, still he would have shewn a 
powerful and original genius, which, in fecundity 
and versatility, as well as in elegance and grace- 



96 LECTURES ON 

fulness, bas never yet been equalled, and will 
certainly never be surpassed. 

In addition to the neglect of bis Female cha- 
racters, another vulgar estimate of the powers of 
Shakspeare, was founded upon the idea, that he 
was a great, but irregular genius, flourishing in a 
barbarous age, which was unenlightened, excepting 
by the splendour which he himself threw around it; 
and which even over his own " mounting Spirit'* 
has cast it's gothic chains, and prevented it from 
reaching it's natural elevation. "We now feel and 
know, that his judgment was as profound, as his 
genius was magnificent; that his skill in con- 
structing his plots, and developing his characters, 
was not surpassed even by the splendour of his 
imagination, and the richness of his diction ; and 
that, so far from shining a solitary star in the 
midst of Cimmerian blackness, he was surrounded 
by inferior, but still resplendent orbs, each of 
which only waited the setting of his surpassing 
brightness, to shine itself the Lord of the as- 
cendant. 

The fame which this extraordinary man has 
acquired, and which seems, to use a simile of 
Schlegel's, ** to gather strength, like an Alpine 
avalanche, at every period of it's descent," is not 
the least remarkable circumstance connected with 



ENGLISH POETRY. 97 

our subject. It is not simply from the approving 
judgments, or the delighted fancies, of his partial 
readers, that Shakspeare derives his reputation 
and his power. His writings " come home," as 
Lord Bacon has expressed it, " to men's business 
and bosoms." They teach us something of our- 
selves, and " of the stuff we're made of." Like 
his own Hamlet^ — 

" They set us up a glass, 
Where we may see the inmost parts of us.'* 

Hence, it is not merely approval, or even de- 
light, which is excited by his powers; it is '* an 
appetite, a feeling, and a love." No Poet was 
ever so passionately admired ; because none ever 
so completely developed the springs of Human 
nature, and thus rendered himself intelligible, and 
interesting to all. Hence too, the universality, 
and the perpetuity of his fame. He has painted 
all the modes and qualities of human conditions ; 
all the shades and peculiarities of human character. 
Wherever, therefore, those characters, and those 
conditions exist, the works of Shakspeare can 
never become foreign, or obsolete. *' The stream 
of Time, which is continually washing the disso- 

F 



98 LECTURES ON 

luble fabrics of other Poets, passes without injury 
by the adamant of Shakspeare.*' 

" Age cannot wither him, nor custom stale 
His infinite variety." 

The surface of life may be altered, but the tide 
of human feelings and passions will continue it's 
unalterable course beneath it. Reputation built 
upon the ephemeral taste and fancies of a day, 
will vanish with the causes which produced it ; but 
Shakspeare's, with it's altar in the heart of man, 
is extensive as the world, and imperishable as 
humanity. The fame of Shakspeare has naturally 
suggested an enquiry as to the peculiar powers of 
that mind, which could acquire such an influence 
over the minds of others. What was the talisman 
that worked these wonders? Wherein did he 
surpass that world which has paid him such extra- 
ordinary honours 1 The answers to these enquiries 
have been as various as the tastes and opinions of 
readers. His wit, his imagination, his sublimity, 
have all been suggested as the distinguished cha- 
racteristics of his mind ; but the arguments which 
have been advanced in support of these positions 
have proved only, that in these particulars he 



ENGLISH POETRY. 99 

excelled the rest of the world. In order to answer 
this enquiry satisfactorily, we must also shew wherein 
he excelled himself. The most extraordinary sup- 
position, however, that we have heard started on 
this point, is that he painted with truth and fidelity, 
because he divested himself of the common passions 
and feelings of human nature ; and stood aloof 
from the ordinary concerns of mankind, in order to 
describe with greater correctness and impartiality. 

*' Cold lookers-on, they say, 
Can better judge than those who play;" 

and the remark would apply to Shakspeare, if, 
indeed, he merely described; if the warm and 
glowing pictures which he exhibits could have been 
the effects of cold calculation, and unimpassioned 
observations. If I might hazard an opinion, I 
should say that the master-feeling in the mind of 
Shakspeare, and that which has enabled him to 
subjugate the hearts of all mankind, was Sympathy ; 
for it has been well said, that " when words come 
from one heart, they cannot fail to reach another." 
Shakspeare's feelings, there can be no doubt, were 
of the finest and acutest order. He is styled by his 
contemporaries " sweet Shakspeare," and " gentle 
Shakspeare," as if to denote the susceptibility of 

f2 



100 LECTURES ON 

bis disposition, and his amiable manners. He 
painted correctly, because he felt strongly: and it 
seems to me impossible to account, in any other 
way, for his excellence in both provinces of the 
Dramatic art. It is well known that spirits re- 
markable for their mirth and hilarity, are most 
susceptible of tender and mournful passions ; and 
it has been observed that the English, as a nation, 
are equally famous for wit, and for melancholy. 
It is a common observation, that mirth begets 
mirth ; and on the other hand an old English Poet, 
Drayton, has beautifully said, that, — 

"Tears, 
Elixir-like, turn all to tears tliey touch." 

The feelings of Shakspeare's mind produced cor- 
respondent feelings in the minds of others; lite 
a precious stone, which casts it's brilliant hues over 
every object that it approaches. 

But whatever may have been the strongest 
marked feature in the mind of our Author, we are 
convinced that the theory which refers his asto- 
nishing fame to the possession of any one peculiar 
quality, is erroneous. His distinguishing charac- 
teristic is the union of many excellencies: each of 
which he possessed in a degree unequalled by any 



ENGLISH POETRY. 101 

other Poet. Shakspeare will be found pre-eminent, 
if we consider his sublimity, his pathos, his ima- 
gination, his wit, or his humour; his union in 
his own person of the highest Tragic and Comic 
excellence, and his knowledge of Nature, animate, 
inanimate, and human. To excel in any one of 
these particulars would form a great Poet ; to unite 
two, or three of them, is a lot too lofty even for 
the ambition of highly favoured mortals ; but to 
combine all, as Shakspeare has done^ in one tre- 
mendous intellect, is, indeed,— 

** To get the start of the majestic "World, 
And bear the palm alone \" 

The genius of Shakspeare cannot be illustrated 
by a reference to that of any other Poet ; for, with 
whom is he to be compared ? Like his own 
Richard. — 



" He has no brother, is like no brother, 
He is himself alone !" 



Geniuses of the most colossal dimensions become 
dwarfed by his side. Like Titan, he is a Giant 
among giants. . Like him too, he piles up his 
magnificent thoughts, Olympus high ; he grasps the 



102 LECTURES ON 

lightnings of creative Jove ; and speaks the words 
that call Spirits, and Mortals, and Worlds, into 
existence. He has faults, doubtless ; faults which 
it is not my purpose either to extenuate, or to 
deny, but the Critic who thinks that such faults 
are of much weight, when opposed to his genius, 
would be likely to condemn the Apollo Belvidere, 
for a stain upon the pedestal. The very brightness 
of transcendent excellence renders it's faults and 
imperfections but the more visible ; nothing appears 
faultless but mediocrity. The Moon and the Stars 
shine with unsuUied brightness; the Sun alone 
exhibits spots upon his disk ! 

It is, however, truly difficult to say anything on 
the subject of Shakspeare, which has not been 
said before. So numerous, so ardent, and so 
discriminative, have been his admirers, that almost 
every latent beauty seems to have been brought to 
light, and every once-obscure passage surrounded 
by^ blaze of illustration. There is, indeed, but 
one class of, characters which he has delineated 
with consummate power and excellence, which has 
not, I think, yet attracted that critical notice which 
it merits, I mean the party-coloured Fool, or 
Jester, whose gibes and jeers were wont to set 
the tables of our ancestors in a roar. This character 
is now no longer to be met with in the halls of the 



ENGLISH POETRY. 103 

great and opulent. The glories of the motley 
coat have passed away. A few faint vestiges of 
it are preserved at Wakes, and Village festivals, 
in the remote provinces of the island ; and some 
of it's honours are yet divided between the Clown 
and Harlequin of our modern Pantomime; but, 
alas! '* how changed! how fallen!" Spirits of 
Touchstone f Gohbo, and Pompey Bum! do ye 
not sometimes wander from your Elysium, to 
mourn over the imbecile efforts of these degenerate 
times ? 

The sketches which Shakspeare has given us of 
this character, will sufficiently excuse our ances- 
tors for the attachment which they evinced for it ; 
for, if his portraits at all resemble the originals, 
they must have been very delightful personages 
indeed. As delineated by our Author, the cha- 
racter is a compound of infinite wit, with match- 
less effrontery; affecting Folly, making itself the 
butt of it's companions for their amusement, yet 
frequently turning the laugh upon themselves ; 
generally escaping from the consequences of great 
Impudence, and not a little knavery, by the exer- 
cise of it's humorous talents ; yet liable to be 
kicked and cudgelled, whensoever, and where- 
soever, it was deemed expedient. These are the 
general outlines ; but these, Shakspeare has diver- 



104 LECTURES ON 

sified with such varied and admirable power, that^ 
many as are the Clowns introduced into his Plays, 
he has never repeated the same individual. Like 
Nature herself, who does not produce two blades 
of grass exactly similar, so Shakspeare makes the 
nicest discrimination between personages which 
approximate, and almost blend with each other. 
Even the Ruffians who are hired to murder the 
Infant Princes in " Richard the Third/* and the 
Servants who are spreading the table for the ban- 
quet of the Volscian Lords in " Coriolanus," are 
all distinguished from each other, by the most 
minute, and delicate traits of character. 
, In Shakspeare 's Clowns there is every variety 
which diversity of humour, talents, station, and 
disposition, can give to them. From the witless 
blundering Costard,— perhaps the lowest in the 
scale, — we ascend by regular gradations through 
the half-starved, conscientious Launcelot Gobbo, — 
" young master Launcelot," — the merry chirping 
Clown in '^ Twelfth Night " and the bitter sar- 
castic Fool in ** King Lear" up to that very 
Prince of Fools,— the Courtier, Lover, Philoso- 
pher, Scholar, Poet, DueUist, — the " unimitated, 
inimitable" Touchstone, The Clowns of Shak- 
speare, also, are not extraneous characters, intro- 
duced, like those in the Plays of Marston^ Beau- 



ENGLISH POETRY. 105 

mont and Fletcher, and some others, merely for 
the purpose of shewing off their own humour. 
They are active personages of the Drama, and 
often contribute materialiy to the business of the 
Scene. On the mistakes of Costard, hinges the 
whole Plot of ** Lovers Labour Lost " and Launce- 
lot Gohho is a principal agent in the escape of 
Jessica, in the *' Merchant of Venice.''^ The 
dialogues between Launce d^ndi Speed m. the *' Two 
Gentlemen of Verona," and between the Dromios 
in the *' Comedy of Errors,^ are, on this very ac- 
count alone, sujSicient to prove that those Plays are 
not wholly Shakspeare's. That the marks of his 
powerful pencil may be sometimes recognised, 
cannot be denied ; but, that the composition of 
the entire picture is his, is an opinion which not 
all the authorities in the world shall persuade 
me to adopt : this feeling " fire cannot bum 
out of me; I will die with it at the stake!" 
The character of the Fool in '' Lear" is one of 
the most effective even in that wonderful Drama, 
by the way in which it sets off, and reheves that of 
the King ; and there cannot be a more striking- 
proof of the incapacity of Managers, and of the 
menders of Shakspeare, than it's omission in the 
acted Play. 

I have already expressed my attachment to 

f3 



106 LECTURES ON 

Touchstone ; and I hope that general opinion will 
coincide with me. I would say, as Jacques said 
to the Duke, — " I pray you, like this Fool !" He 
is indeed the very paragon of his tribe : — ** One 
that hath been a Courtier ; and says, if Ladies be 
but young and fair, they have the gift to know it ; 
and in his brain, which is as dry as the remainder 
biscuit, after a voyage, he hath strange places 
crammed with observation, the which he vents in 
mangled forms.'* 

Was there ever such matter in Folly ? was there 
ever, as Jacques calls him, such ** a material 
fool V Are all the wise treatises which were ever 
written on the laws of Honour, comparable to his 
dissertation on the seven causes? Or, is there 
any one who will dispute his claim to a Courtier's 
rank, after having heard him plead his own cause ? 
*' I have trod a measure ; I have flattered a lady ; 
I have been politic with my friend ; smooth with 
mine enemy ; I have undone three tailors ! I 
have had four quarrels, and like to have fought 
one !" Then, how richly is his mind furnished ! 
Launcelot Gohho is an erudite man in his way, but 
he is nothing to Touchstone. The former, it is 
true, talks of " the Fates and Destinies, and such 
odd sayings ; the Sisters three, and such branches 
of learning :" but Touchstone, morahsing on the 



ENGLISH POETRY. 107 

time, and playing the logician with the ShepJierd, 
till he proves to his hearer's own satisfaction, that 
he is incontestibly damned ; and reading his lec- 
tures on Poetry to Audrey; and recounting his 
amours with Jane Smile ; is entirely matchless and 
irresistible ; and compels us to reiterate the excla- 
mation of Jacques, — 

" Oh noble Fool ! 
A worthy fool ! Motley's the only wear !" 

Shakspeare in this Play has very artfully and beau- 
tifully shewn, how two characters, which to the 
casual observer appear diametrically opposed, may 
have latent resemblances ; and may feel themselves 
irresistibly drawn together, by some inexplicable 
Hnk, so fine as to be invisible, and yet so strong, 
as to form an instant bond of union. Of all the 
characters in this Drama, those of Jacques and 
the Clown would seem to stand at the farthest dis- 
tance from each other ; but on their first interview, 
the former becomes attached to Touchstone ; is 
ambitious of a motley coat, and is wrapt in admi- 
ration that, *' Fools should be so deep contempla- 
tive." Yet Jacques is a gentleman of polished 
mind and manners ; and Touchstone is a low do- 
mestic. One is shy and reserved ; the other 



108 LECTURES ON 

loquacious and fond of society. One is of a mind 
sensitive and irritable, even to disease ; the other, 
the common butt at which it is the chartered privi- 
lege of all to level their malice, or their wit. If, 
however, we examine these characters more closely, 
we shall find amidst all their contrarieties, many 
traits of resemblance. Both are men of strong 
sense and extensive observation ; both have a 
quick talent for detecting the ridiculous ; but in 
the nervous temperament o^ Jacques ^ this has pro- 
duced misanthropy, and a sullen abjuration of the 
world ; while in the heartier humour of Touchstone, 
it has only added to his sources of enjoyment, by 
enabling him to laugh more frequently at the follies 
of mankind. Both have been used to the Court; 
and, although in very different stations, have en- 
joyed equal opportunities of observing the world, 
and it is clear that the good-humoured Fool has 
arrived at much the same conclusion in his estimate 
of mankind, as the splenetic Kecluse. They have 
the same disposition to depreciate whatever is the 
admiration, or the occupation of others. Jacques 
adds a burlesque stanza to the Song of Amiens, 
and Touchstone produces a ludicrous parody on 
Orlando s verses : Jacques swears that the Duke, 
because he kills venison, is a greater Usurper than 
his brother ; and Touchstone, because the Shep- 



ENGLISH POETRY. 109 

herd gets his living by the increase of his flock, 
tells him that he lives by the intrigues of cattle, 
and the wickedness of bell-wethers. 

I find that by beginning with Touchstone, I have 
been guilty of a sad anti-climax. To descend with 
Shakspeare is, however, a loftier occupation than 
to rise with other writers. Indeed, I am not sure, 
when I reconsider the matter, that I have not com- 
mitted an injustice in giving any of the motley 
tribe precedence of the Fool in " Lear J" This is 
a Tragic character; not in itself, but in the way in 
which it sets off, and heightens the picture which 
is presented of the misery of the King. It is like 
the dark lights of Rembrandt; a gleam, a ray, 
showing, but not dispelling, the blackness which 
surrounds it. The following Scene is an example : 

" Fool. Can'st tell how an oyster makes his shell? 

Lear. No. 

Fooi. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has a house. 

Lear. Why? 

Fool. Why, to put his head in; not to give it away to hi* 
daughters, and leave his horns without a case. 

Lear. I will forget my nature, — So kind a father! Be my 
horses ready ? 

Fool. Thy asses are gone about 'em. The reason why the 
seven Stars are seven, is a pretty reason. 

Lear. Because they are not eight ? 

Fool. Yes, indeed. Thou would'st make a good Fool. 

Lear. To take it again perforce ! Monster ingratitude ! 



110 LECTURES ON 

Fool If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I'd have thee beaten 
for being old before thy time. 

Lear. How's that? 

Fool. Thou should'st not have been old before thou had'st 
been wise. 

Lear. Oh ! let me not be mad ! not mad, sweet Heaven ! 
Keep me in temper, I would not be mad/' 



How subtle and fine was Shakspeare's knowledge 
of the human mind ! How beautifully has he, in 
the three characters of Lear, Edgar, and the 
Fool, discriminated between the real insanity of 
the first, the assumed madness of the second, and 
the official buffbonery of the third. Learns thoughts 
are ever dwelling on his daughters ; his mind is a 
desert, and that one idea, like the Banana tree, fixes 
in it it's thousand roots, to the exclusion of all others. 
How different is this from the wild farrago of Mad 
Tom, who is obliged to talk an unintelligible gibber- 
ish, for the purpose of supporting his assumed part; 
through which his real character is every now and 
then seen, and discovers itself in a sympathy for 
the unhappy King. The conversation of the Fool, 
on the contrary, is composed of scraps of old 
Songs and sayings, which he apphes with bitter 
mirthfulness to the situation of his master. It is 
also worthy of notice, among those minute beau- 
ties which are so often passed over without com- 



ENGLISH POETRY. Ill 

meat, that, as Lear s misery deepens and increases, 
the witticisms of the Fool become less frequent; 
and, unable any longer to indulge in his jests, he 
shows his sympathy by his silence. This is finely 
imagined, and worth all the eloquent sorrow that 
an ordinary Play-wright would have indited. In 
the early part of the Tragedy, the Fool is as 
frequent an interlocutor as Lear himself; but in 
that powerfully pathetic scene, in which the dis- 
tracted King imagines, that his daughters are 
being arraigned before him for their crimes, he in- 
dulges in only one sorry jest, at the beginning, 
and is afterwards mute; while, Edgar also, unable 
any longer to play the Maniac, exclaims : — 

** My tears begin to take his part so much, 
They'll mar my counterfeiting." 

It is thus that Genius effects it's noblest triumphs, 
by identifying it's actors with it's auditors. 

I have left myself very little space for discussing 
the merits of the remaining worthies of this class. 
The Clown in " Twelfth Nighf should occupy a 
very considerable place in our esteem. He has 
less Poetry about his character than either of those 
of whom we have been speaking, but he is more 
of a bon vivant, and a man amongst men. Both 



112 LECTURES ON 

Touchstone, and the Fool in '^ Lear/* seem in 
some measure to stand aloof from the other per- 
sonages, and to have but few feelings and objects 
in common with them. They are *' among them, 
but not of them." But the Clown in the Play be- 
foreus, can sing a good Song, can take his share of 
a stoop of wine ; can join in the laugh which he has 
not raised, and assist in the plot which others have 
projected. There is " a laughing devil in the 
sneer" of Lem^'s Fool, and even Touchstone 
" smiles in bitterness,'^ but this jovial Clown has 
much more of mere flesh and blood in him : he ap- 
proximates nearer to Falstaff than his brethren do. 
There seems to be nothing of pure malevolence in 
his wit. Even his share in the conspiracy against 
MalvoUo, is undertaken simply for the love of 
laughter, and without any desire to give real pain 
to the fantastical Steward. Nay, he at length en- 
tertains sympathy for his persecutions, and endea- 
vours to use his good offices in his favour. His 
joining in the bitter laugh, and ironical compliments 
of his companions, when impelled to it by the ab- 
surdities of Malvolio, is the effect of long habit, 
and a naturally quick discernment of the ridiculous; 
and he no more evinces thereby a want of sympathy 
and good nature, than did Hogarth when he used 



ENGLISH POETRY. 113 

his pencil to depict the ludicrous expression of the 
boy's countenance whose head was broken at the 
Tavern. He is a more inveterate punster than 
any of his tribe. Words with him are the most 
ductile and pliable of all things ; he can twist them 
into any shape, and extort from them almost 
any meaning ; he is a very despot over the English 
language ; he pursues with unconquerable pertina- 
city the most innocent word in the vocabulary, 
and never parts with it till he has triumphed over 
it's simplicity; he is, indeed, as he describes him- 
self, ** not his mistress's fool, but her corrupter of 
words." 

These are the flower of the Clownish army ; but 
there are numerous, although inferior, worthies, 
behind. There is Pompey the Great, in *' Mea- 
sure for Measure ,-" and Costard, who finds out, 
that remuneration is the Latin word for three far- 
things ; and Launcelot Gohho who was the subject 
of that memorable warfare between the fiend and 
his conscience ; and the Shepherd's Son, in the 
" Winters Tale,''^ the new made gentleman, or 
rather, '' the gentleman born before his father." 
On the merits of these I have not time to descant : 
if not worthy to be compared with their brethren, 
whom I have noticed more at length, they are, 
nevertheless, fine creations in their way. They 



114 LECTURES ON 

are imbued with the genius of Shakspeare : his 
" image and superscription" is on them. There 
is, however, this distinction between them and 
the others, that they seem rather to be qualified 
for the motley-coated office, than to have ever 
filled that station ; and Costard, and the Shep- 
herd's Son, are not gratuitous, but involuntary 
blunderers. Pompey Bum, however, is really a 
great man. His narration of the amours of Master 
Froth and Mistress Elbow, is irresistibly comic ; 
and the arguments by which he endeavours to con- 
vince Barnardine of the benefits of being hanged, 
are almost worthy of Touchstone, himself. 

Such was England's, Nature's Shakspeare : — 

" Each change of many-colour'd life he drew. 
Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new : 
Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, 
And panting Time toil'd after him in vain !" 

Shakspeare's contemporaries have, since the 
publication of Mr. Lambe's Specimens, and the 
Critical labours of Seward, Whalley, Colman, 
Weber, and Gifford, begun to attract that portion 
of public attention to which they are entitled. Jon- 
son's character has also been successfully vindicated, 
by the last named gentleman, against the charge 



ENGLISH POETRY. 115 

of malignity and envy of Shakspeare ; but I do 
not think that his Poetical merits are yet properly 
appreciated. I cannot consent that the palm of 
humour alone shall be given to him ; while, in 
wit, feeling, pathos, and Poetical diction, he is 
to be sunk fathoms below Fletcher and Massinger. 
In the last particular, I think that he excels them 
both, and, indeed, all his contemporaries, except- 
ing Shakspeare. 

The strength of Jonson's style is undoubted, 
and therefore, his Critics have chosen to deny him 
the merits of elegance and gracefulness. The 
fact is, that in his Tragedies, and the metrical parts 
of his Comedies, his versification is peculiarly 
smooth and flowing; and the Songs, and other 
Lyrical pieces, which he has sprinkled over his 
Dramas, are exquisitely elegant,, and elaborated 
to the highest degree of polish. The celebrated 
Poems of " Drink to me only with thine eyes,'* 
and '* Still to be neat, still to be drest," sufficiently 
prove this assertion. I have already, in a former 
Lecture, given one of Jonson's Canzonets, but I 
cannot refrain from also quoting the following 
beautiful. Madrigal : — 



Do but look on her eyes, they do light 
All that Love's world compriseth ; 



116 LECTURES ON 

;#■ Do but look on her hair, it is bright 
As Love's star when it riseth ! 
Do but mark her forehead, smoother 
Than words that soothe her ! 
And from her arch'd brow such a grace 
Sheds itself through the face, 
As alone there triumphs to the life. 
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow 

Before rude hands have touch'd it? 
Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow 

Before the soil hath smutch'd it? 
Have you felt the wool of the beaver ? 
Or the swan's down, ever ? 
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar? 
Or the nard i' the fire ? 
Or have tasted the bag o' the bee, 
Oh ! so white ! Oh ! so soft ! Oh ! so sweet is she \" 

'' Catiline, Ids Conspiracy ^ is a fine Tragedy, 
full of passionate and animated action ; but, at the 
same time, displaying eloquent dialogue, powerful 
description, and a sweet, yet vigorous versification ; 
while the Characters are drawn, that of Catiline 
especially, with Shakspearean force and truth. 
The piece opens with the denunciation of Sylla's 
Ghost ; after which Catiline enters, brooding over 
his intended treason. The succeeding Scene is 
very artfully contrived to let us into the cha- 
racters of the leading Conspirators, by the account 



ENGLISH POETRY. 117 

which Catiline gives of them to Aurelia ; and 
these characters are preserved, and acted up to, 
with uncommon skill throughout the whole Drama. 
The Imprecation pronounced by Catiline is fine, 
and contains a brief summary of his purpose and 
character : — 

'' It is decreed ! Nor shall thy fate, Oh Rome ! 
Resist my vow. Though hills were set on hills, 
And seas met seas, to guard thee, I would through : 
I'd plough up rocks, steep as the Alps, in dust ; 
And laye the Tyrrhene waters into clouds, 
But I would reach thy head, thy head, proud City !" 

The description of the morning on which the 
chief Conspirators meet together, in the following 
Scene, is highly poetical ; and, as it is remarked by 
Whalley, in strict accordance with the character of 
the speaker, Lentulus, who has been before de- 
scribed, as addicted to superstition, and a belief in 
omens. Jonson, like Shakspeare, does not in- 
dulge in extraneous description ; every thing in 
both these great Authors is characteristic and 
dramatic ; and, in the present instance, the mind 
is finely prepared for the fearfully interesting- 
subject on which the characters are about to de- 
bate, by this powerful description : — 

" It is, methinks, a Morning full of Fate ! 
She riseth slowly, as her sullen car 



118 LECTURES ON 

Had all the weights of Sleep and Death hnng at it. 

She is not rosy finger'd, but swoH'n black ! 

Her face is like a water turn'd to blood, 

And her sick head is bound about with clouds, 

As if she threaten'd night ere noon of day ! 

It does not look, as it would have a hail, 

Or health wish'd in it, as on other morns." 

This, besides being short, and highly charac- 
teristic of the speaker, is connected with the 
business of the Play by the answer of Cethegus: — 

" Why, all the fitter, Lentulus ; our coming 
Is not for salutation, we have business." 

The art and subtlety of Catiline's character is 
also finely developed in this Scene ; for though 
ambition is his ruling passion, the gratification of 
that passion depends upon his assuming the ap- 
pearance of subserviency to his coadjutors ; and 
he tells them, — 

" I am shadow 
To honour'd Lentulus and Cethegus here, 
Who are the heirs of Mars.'' 



And he is diligent in applauding, and coinciding 
with, all their suggestions. Afterwards, however, 
when his power is consummated, in his address to 



ENGLISH POETRY. 119 

his soldiers, and in his conduct during the battle, 
he takes a loftier tone, and acts " as one having 
authority." This is human nature, and is beauti- 
fully and truly illustrated by the Poet. My limits 
will, of course, not allow me to adduce many 
specimens of the Dramatic skill of Jonson, which 
cannot be shewn by passages, or even by whole 
scenes. For this, I must refer to the Plays them- 
selves : the present object being merely to prove 
that Jonson excelled in the lighter graces and 
elegancies of Poetry; that he could describe 
powerfully; and that his versification, instead of 
being rugged and lame, is constructed upon the 
truest principles of harmony. The following is 
animated and striking : — 



Slaughter bestrid the streets, and stretch'd himself 

To seem more huge ; whilst to his stained thighs, 

The gore he drew, flow'd up, and carried down 

Whole heaps of limbs and bodies through his arch ; 

No age was spared, no sex, nay, no degree ; 

Not infants in the porch of life were free. 

The sick, the old, that could not hope a day 

Longer by Nature's bounty, not let stay : 

Virgins and widows, matrons, pregnant wives, 

All died !— 

The rugged Charon fainted. 

And ask'd a navy, rather than a boat, 

To ferry over the sad world that came. 



120 LECTURES ON 

The maws and dens of beasts could not receive 
The bodies that those souls were frighted from ; 
And e'en the graves were fill'd with men yet living, 
Whose flight and fear had mix'd them with the dead." 

The speech of Peiteius, in the closing Scene of 
this fine Tragedy, is, perhaps, somewhat too long 
for our purpose ; but it is so full of noble and 
sublime images, gives so striking a picture of the 
chief personage of the Drama, and is so charac- 
teristic of the strength and beauty of the Author's 
style, that I cannot persuade myself to mutilate 
it:— 



** The straits and needs of Catiline being such, 
That he must fight with one of the two armies, 
That then had near enclosed him, it pleased Fate 
To make rs th' object of his desperate choice, 
Wherein the danger almost poised the honour : 
And as he rose, the day grew black with him, 
And Fate descended nearer to the earth, 
As if she meant to hide the name of things 
Under her wings, and make the world her quarry. 
At this we roused, lest one small minute's stay 
Had left it to be enquired, what Rome was ; 
And, as we ought, arm'd in the confidence 
Of our great cause, in form of battle stood : 
Whilst Catiline came on, not with the face 
Of any man, but of a public ruin : 
His countenance was a civil war itself ; 



ENGLISH POETRY. 121 

And all his host had standing in their looks 

The paleness of the death that was to come. 

Yet cried they out like vultures, and urged on, 

As though they would precipitate our fates: 

Nor stay'd we longer for them ; but himself 

Struck the first stroke, and with it fled a life ; 

Which cut, it seem'd a narrow neck of land 

Had broke between two mighty seas, and either 

Flow'd into other ; for so did the slaughter ; 

And whirl'd about, as when two violent tides 

Meet, and not yield. The Furies stood on hills, 

Circling the place, and trembling to see men 

Do more than they ; whilst Piety left the field, 

Grieved for that side, that in so bad a cause 

They knew not what a crime their valour was. 

The Sun stood still, and was behind a cloud 

The battle made, seen sweating to drive up 

His frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backward : 

And now had fierce Enyo, like a flame, 

Consumed all it could reach, and then itself ; 

Had not the fortune of the Commonwealth 

Come, Pallas-like, to every Roman thought. 

Which Catiline seeing, and that now his troops 

Cover'd that earth they'd fought on with their trunks, 

Ambitious of great fame to crown his ill, 

Collected all his fury, and ran in, 

Arm'd with a glory high as his despair. 

Into our battle, like a Lybian lion, 

Upon his hunters ; scornful of our weapons, 

Careless of wounds, plucking down lives about him, 

Till he had circled in himself with death ; 

Then he fell too, t' embrace it where it lay. 

Minerva holding forth Medusa's head, 

G 



122 LECTURES ON 

One of the giant brethren felt himself 
Grow marble at the killing sight, and now, 
Almost made stone, began t' enquire what flint, 
What rock, it was that crept through all his limbs. 
And ere he could think more, was that he fear'd ; 
So Catiline, at the sight of Rome, in us 
Became his tomb : yet did his look retain 
Some of his fierceness, and his hands still moved. 
As if he labour'd yet to grasp the state 
With those rebellious parts." 

It would be difficult to find, in the whole range 
of English Poetry, a more magnificent description 
than this. The images are of a grandeur and 
sublimity correspondent with the subject, yet do 
they not, excepting perhaps that of the horses of 
the Sun being frightened at the noise of the 
battle, which is certainly somewhat too violent, 
degenerate into turgidity and bombast. It is, 
however, more Epic than Dramatic ; and if the 
action had been represented, instead of being 
described, it would certainly have a more powerful 
eff*ect upon the audience. For the honour of the 
Poet, we should add, that, much as he borrowed 
from the classics, this speech is original. 

I have quoted so largely from " Catiline,'' that 
I have not any space for extracts from the 
rest of our Author's Dramas. The most poetical 
among them are '* Sejanus,'* " Cynthia's Revels," 



EISGLISH POETRY. 123 

the " Poetaster,^' and the fine fragments of the 
" Sad Shepherd" and ''Mortimers FalV 

But Jonson's fame rests principally upon his 
Comic powers. The great characteristic feature 
of his Comic genius is humour; an ingredient 
which seems to be entirely lost sight of in the 
composition of modern Comedies ; the best, and 
most successful of which are remarkable only for 
wit. Brilliancy of dialogue, and smartness of 
repartee, excellent things as they are, are but poor 
substitutes for character, action, and human na- 
ture. In the composition of a perfect Comedy 
must be united wit and humour. Jonson had 
infinite humour, without much wit. Congreve, 
on the contrary, had wit in abundance, with very 
little, if any, humour. Sir Joseph Wittol and 
Captain Bluff may seem exceptions to this remark ; 
but the former appears to me to be not humourous^ 
but fantastic and unnatural; and the latter is a 
compound plagiarism from Bessus and the two 
Swordsmen of Beaumont and Fletcher. Congreve's 
most humourous Play is " Love for Love ,•" the 
most witty of Jonson's is, perhaps, *' Volpone, 
or, the Fox ,•" which is the most perfect of all his 
works. The next in merit are '* Epicene, or, the 
Silent Woman," the " Alchemist,'^ and " Every 
Man in his Humour" 

G 2 



124 LECTURES ON 

Jonson's style had few imitators, while that of 
his illustrious rival Shakspeare, formed the taste, 
and fixed the literary character, of his country. 
The best pupil of the Jonsonian School was 
Cartwright, of whom Jonson was very proud, and 
used to call him his son ; and I give an extract 
from the ** Royal Slave" to prove the truth of 
the old bard's assertion, " My Son Cartwright 
writes like a man :" — 

" If they are Gods, Pity's a banquet to them. 
Whene'er the innocent and virtuous 
Do escape death, then is their festival : 
Nectar ne'er flovrs more largely than when blood's 
Not spilt that should be saved. D'ye think the smoke 
Of human entrails is a steam that can 
Delight the Deities ? Whoe'er did burn 
The Temple to the honour of the Architect ? 
Or break the tablet in the Painter's praise ? 
'Tis Mercy is the sacrifice they like." 

I have entered thus largely upon the merits of 
Jonson, because I know, that, although much 
talked of, he is little read. He has the reputation 
of being a humourous, but rough and unpolished 
writer; exhibiting a rude strength in his Comic 
scenes, but without the feeling, elegance, or power, 
necessary for a Tragic, or Poetical Author. How 
true such opinions are, my quotations have suffi- 



ENGLISH POETRY. 125 

ciently shewn ; and for the number and length of 
those quotations, I need make no apology; for 
they are, indeed, 

^< No weak efforts of a modern pen, 
But the strong touches of immortal Ben." 



126 LECTURES ON 



LECTURE THE FOURTH. 



DRAMATIC POETRY CONTINUED. 

Beaumont and Fletcher :— Massinger : — Ford : — Webster : — 
Effects of the Civil War upon Dramatic Literature : — 
Milton, Dryden, Otway, Lee, Rowe, and Young : — 
Brilliancy and Licentiousness of the new School of 
Comedy : — Congreve, Farquhar, and Vanbrugh : — Jeremy 
Collier : — Sentimental Comedy : — Sir Richard Steele : — 
Goldsmith : — Cumberland : — The German School : — 
Sheridan : — Present State of the Drama. 

My last Lecture attempted a Critical Review of 
the splendid Dramatic talents of Shakspeare, and 
Jonson ; I now proceed to notice some of their 
gifted Contemporaries. Beaumont and Fletcher 
have given birth to many admirable scenes of wit 
and humour; and much lofty, eloquent, and affect- 
ing Poetry. Their powers, — I speak of them 
jointly, for all the attempts to distinguish their 
productions have ended in nothing but vain con- 
jecture, — their powers were of a very high order ; 
not, however, as some of their admirers assert, 
approachable to that of Shakspeare. They skimmed 



ENGLISH POETRY. 127 

the surface of life, and painted some of the lighter 
feelings and passions, with much ability: but they 
could not sound the depths of human nature like 
Shakspeare. When they venture into the higher 
regions of passion, they shew great fancy and 
elegance, but nothing more. The madness of the 
Gaolers daughter, in that part of the '^ Two Nolle 
Kinsmen" which is ascribed to Fletcher, is 
prettily managed ; but compare it for a moment 
with Ophelia^ or Lear, — the comparison with the 
latter has been challenged, — and how infinite is 
the disproportion : the first is not without the 
graces of Poetry, but the latter are compounded 
of the elements of human nature. There is, 
however, great beauty in the following passage 
from the *' Queen of Corinth:'^ — 

" Wherefore sits 
My Phoebe shadow'd in a sable cloud ? 
Those pearly drops which thou lett'st fall like beads, 
Numbering on them thy vestal orisons, 
Alas ! are spent in vain ; I love thee still. 
In midst of all these showers thou sweetlier scent'st 
Like a green meadow on an April day, 
In which the Sun and west wind play together, 
Striving to catch and drink the pearly drops." 

Their use of imagery drawn from external na- 



128 LECTURES ON 

ture, is in general peculiarly happy : the passage 
which I have just quoted is an instance of this, 
and that which follows is still more striking : — 

" 1. Of all the Flowers, methinks the Rose is best. 

2. Why, gentle Madam ? 

1. It is the very emblem of a maid ; 

For when the west wind courts her gently, 

How modestly she blows, and paints the Sun 

With her chaste blushes ! When the north wind comes 

near her, 
Rude and impatient, then, like Chastity, 
She locks her beauties in her bud again. 
And leaves him to base briars." 

Shakspeare is reported to have joined in the 
composition of the " Two Noble Kinsmen,*'' from 
which this passage is taken ; and from the extreme 
beauty and delicacy of the simile, I am half 
inclined to ascribe it to him. Again, how exqui- 
sitely simple and natural is the following image :— 

^' Though I have lost my fortune, and lost you, 
For a worthy Father, yet I will not lose 
My former virtue ; my integrity 
Shall not forsake me : But, as the wild ivy 
Spreads and thrives better in some piteous ruin^ 
Of tower, or defaced temple, than it does 
Planted by a new building ; so shall I, 
Make my adversity my instrument 
To wind jne up into a full contents" 



ENGLISH POETRY. 129 

The public are much better acquainted with the 
writings of Massinger than with those of most of 
his contemporaries : for which distinction he is 
mainly indebted to the admirable manner in which 
he has been edited by Mr. Gifford, and to the 
circumstance of some of his Plays having been 
illustrated on the Stage by the talents of a popular 
Actor. I cannot, however, quite agree with Mr. 
GifFord, when he ranks this Author immediately 
after Shakspeare. He certainly yields in versa- 
tility of talent to Beaumont and Fletcher, whose 
Comic genius was very great ; and in feeling and 
nature, I by no means think his Tragedies equal 
to their*s, or to Ford's, or Webster's. Massinger 
excelled in working up a single scene forcibly and 
effectively, rather than in managing his plots skil- 
fully, or in delineating characters faithfully, and 
naturally. His catastrophes are sometimes brought 
about in a very improbable and unnatural manner; 
as in the " Bondman" where the Insurrection of 
the slaves is quelled by their masters merely 
shaking their whips at them; and in '^ ^ new Way 
to pay old Debts" where Overreach, about to 
murder his daughter, suddenly drops his weapon, 
and says, " Some undone Widow sits upon my arm, 
and takes away the use of 't." I am aware that 
the first incident is said to be an historical fact ; 

G 3 



130 LECTURES ON 

but even if it be so, it is not a probable and effec- 
tive incident in a Drama. " Le vrai n'est pas 
toujours le vraisemblable." His characters are 
certainly drawn with amazing power, especially 
those in which the blacker passions are depicted ; 
but they are generally out of nature. At least he 
wanted the art of shading his pictures : he gives 
us nothing but the bold, prominent features; we 
miss all the delicate tints of the back ground. 

With all these drawbacks, the genius of Mas- 
singer is unquestionably great. The sweetness 
and purity of his style, was not surpassed even 
in his own days. His choice and management of 
imagery is generally very happy; excepting that 
he is apt to pursue a favourite idea too long. His 
descriptive powers were also very considerable, the 
clearness and distinctness with which he places ob- 
jects before our eyes, might furnish models for a 
Painter. In single scenes too, as I before ob- 
served, his genius is great and original. The 
battle between the Father and Son in the " Un- 
natural Comhaty^ and the dreadful parley which 
precedes it, are as powerfully expressed, as they 
are imagined. Indeed, the genius of Massinger 
is, perhaps, more conspicuous in this Play, with all 
it's faults, than in any other. The character of 
Old Malefort, although possessing all the defects 



ENGLISH POETRY. 131 

which I have pointed out, is a masterly delineation, 
and ably sustained. Like Ford's Giovanni, he is 
the victim of a guilty passion ; but instead of an 
enthusiastic, romantic, and accomplished scholar, 
we have here a veteran warrior, and the perpe- 
trator of many crimes. The flash of lightning by 
which he is destroyed is another of Massinger's 
violent catastrophes ; but such a catastrophe is finer 
and more effective in this Play than in some others, 
as it seems to harmonise with the tremendous tone 
of the whole picture. 

I have not space to enter into a detailed review 
of the merits of the rest of Shakspeare's contem- 
poraries. Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and 
Massinger, have perhaps, fewer faults than most 
of them; but there are others by whose excellen- 
cies they are rivalled, and even surpasssed. Ford 
is the Poet of domestic life ; the lord and ruler of 
our sighs and tears. No where, not even in the 
pages of Shakspeare himself, is there to be found 
any thing more deeply pathetic, or more intensely 
affecting, than some scenes in the " Broken Heart,'' 
and the ** Brother and Sister.^' But his " web is 
of a mingled yarn." He delighted too much in 
violent situations, and shocking catastrophes; and 
his style is too bald and unornamented. He can- 
not shower the sweet flowers of fancy over the 



13^ LECTURES ON 

grave, and hide the horrors of his scenes of blood 
under the bewitching mantle of Poetry. This is 
the grand secret with which Shakspeare was so 
well acquainted. We weep and tremble over the 
scenes of Ford ; but we feel a disinclination to 
take up the volume again, and undergo the same 
harrowing and unmitigated sensations. In Shaks- 
peare, though we tremble as we read, we still 
cling to his pages with thrilling interest and una- 
bated delight, and recur to them with feelings of 
increased admiration. 

The same objections will apply to the Dramas of 
"Webster; but his fancy had a far bolder wing than 
that of Ford, and he, therefore, in that particular, ap- 
proaches near to the standard of Shakspeare, This 
Author, with whose name few persons are probably 
very familiar, enjoyed a great and a deserved re- 
putation among his contemporaries, and will, doubt- 
less, yet emerge from the temporary oblivion in 
which the forgetful generations who succeeded him 
have allowed him to sink. Ford, of whom I have 
just been speaking, says, — 

" Crown him a Poet, whom nor Greece nor Rome 
Transcend ;" 

and Middleton, another distinguished Dramatic 



KNGLISH POETRY. 133 

contemporary, speaking of his Tragedy the ** Duch- 
ess of Malfy,'' says — 

'* Thy Monument is raised in thy life time, 
Each Man is his own marble. 
Thy Epitaph only the title be, 
Write Duchess ! that will fetch a tear for thee." 

The Tragedy here nieationed is certainly one of 
the most extraordinary compositions in our lan- 
guage. With many faults, and many extrava- 
gances, it yet evinces so much sterhng merit, such 
a vivid Poetic fancy, and such power in moving- 
terror and pity, that 1 know very few Dramatic 
pieces which are entitled to rank above it. Two 
similies will sufficiently show the originality and 
beauty of Webster's imagery. The first illustrates 
the ingratitude displayed to a faithful servant, who 
continued attached to his master during his fallen 
fortunes : — 

" Oh! th' inconstant, 
And rotten ground of service ! You may see 
'Tis e'en like one, that on a Wintei-'s night 
Takes a long slumber o'er a dying fire, 
As loath to part from't ; yet parts thence more cold, 
Than when he first sat down." 

The Second is contained in the following lines: — 



134 LECTURES ON 

" An honest Statesman to a Prince 
Is like a Cedar planted by a spring : 
The spring bathes the tree's roots, the grateful tree 
Rewards it with the shadow/' 

Chapman, Middleton, Heywood, Dekker, and 
Tourneur, occupy honourable stations in what may 
be called the School of Shakspeare; and Shirley 
gracefully closes the list, not as one of the great- 
est, but as the last, of an illustrious phalanx, who 
disappeared, and left their ranks to be occupied by 
a body, to whom they bore no more resemblance, 
than did the Titans who assaulted Olympus, to 

" That small infantry 
Warr'd on by Cranes.'* 

We have now traced the history, and entered 
into a brief review, of the merits of Dramatic 
Literature in England, previous to the Restora- 
tion ; we have seen it's faint and imperfect dawn 
in the authors of *' Gorhoduc" and " Gammer 
GurtorCs Needle;" it's morning light of rich pro- 
mise in Peele, Lily, and Marlowe; and it's full 
meridian of power and splendour, in Shakspeare 
and his contemporaries. We have now the less 
gratifying, but not less imperative duty, of the 
Historian and Critic, to perform, to narrate it's 



ENGLISH POETRY. 135 

degradation and debasement; it's decline and fall: 
to watch it's downward course from the proud 
pinnacle on which we have recently contemplated 
it, until we find it in the present day, in a 
state where the only consolation left us, is the 
conviction that it cannot possibly sink any lower : 
when we find the National Theatres, where de- 
lighted and applauding audiences hstened to the 
music of Shakspeare, Fletcher, and Jonson, con- 
verted into booths for cattle, and puppet-boxes for 
Punch ; when the boards where Garrick trod are 
disgraced by hoofs; and when the natural emotions 
of '* Lear" and *' Hamlet'^ are no longer attrac- 
tive, unless aided by the contortions of Apes, and 
the mummeries of Pantomime. 

The deposition and death of Charles the First, 
as we have already had occasion to remark, were 
events, which, however advantageous they may 
have proved to the liberties of the Nation, were 
death blows to Poetry, and the Arts. When 
Charles ascended the throne, above a Century had 
elapsed since the civil commotions of the nation 
had been quieted by the accession of the house of 
Tudor; and the Ecclesiastical persecutions of 
Henry, Mary, and Elizabeth, had subsided into 
something like Religious toleration, if not Reli- 



136 LECTURES ON 

gious liberty. Charles the First, if the incidents 
of his reign bad not turned out so disastrous, bid 
fair to have proved to England, what Francis the 
First had been to France, the encourager of the 
Arts; the munificent patron of their Professors; 
and an example in the highest station in the realm, 
of good taste and mental acquirement, which would 
have been very generally imitated by all who looked 
up to the Throne as the fountain of emolument and 
honour. 

The triumph of the Puritans effected a sad 
Revolution in these matters. The days of Jack 
Cade seemed to have returned, when a man was 
hanged for being able to write his own name, 
instead of having a mark to himself like an honest, 
plain-dealing citizen ; and when the nobility were 
proscribed as national enemies, because, as it was 
said, they thought it scorn to go in leathern aprons. 
Painting, Sculpture, Music, and Poetry, but above 
all Dramatic Poetry, were anathematised as in- 
famous, and abominable ; and even Milton consi- 
dered it necessary to excuse himself to his sect, 
for writing the fine Tragedy of *' Sampson Ago- 
nistes" by citing the authority of St. Paul, who 
thought it not unworthy of him to insert a verse of 
Euripides, the great Tragic writer of Greece, into 



ENGLISH POETRY. 137 

the Holy Scriptures : — 1 Corinthians, 15th chapter, 
33d verse, ** Be not deceived, evil communications 
corrupt good manners." 

Milton, as a Dramatist, is the connecting link 
between the writers who flourished previous, and 
subsequent, to the Restoration : not that he has 
much in common with either, but of his two 
Dramas, the first, " Comusj" was written before, 
and the other, " Sampson Agonist es,'' after, that 
period ; and they are each characteristic of the 
writer at the different periods in which they were 
written. The first has all the buoyancy and 
vivacity of youth ; is full of high aspirings ; of 
splendid imaginings ; the outpourings of a Poetical 
spirit, before it was soured by disappointment, or 
fevered by Criticism, or embittered by political, 
or polemical controversy. The Second is as 
strongly characteristic of it's Author when '* fallen 
on evil days, and evil tongues; with darkness and 
with dangers compassed round." The utmost 
severity of thought and diction is observable in 
this Drama. There are no vagaries of fancy ; no 
symptoms of an unbridled imagination. In thought, 
expression, sentiment, it is Greek, attic Greek ; 
tinged, however, with that solemn and unearthly 
character, which it derived from the Sacred na- 
ture of it's subject. Both Dramas are worthy of 



138 LECTURES ON 

the Author of " Paradise Lost" It is true that 
they are not structures of the same vastness and 
magnificence, but they bear evident traces of the 
master-mind of the same surpassing Architect ; 
they are designed with the same consummate taste 
and judgment ; and are constructed of the same 
costly, and superb, and imperishable materials. 

The Restoration varied only the nature of the 
poison with which the public taste was infected. 
The sour manners and fanatical feelings of the 
Puritans, were exchanged for the licentiousness 
and frivolity of a depraved and dissipated Court. 
The Monarch, who had been so long a dependent 
on the bounty of Louis the Fourteenth, brought 
with him a taste for French vices, and introduced 
into the Court of St. James's all the profligacy, 
without the refinement_, of the Tuilleries. The 
English Stage, in like manner, soon became a bad 
copy of the French ; and Corneille, Racine, and 
Crevillon, are the literary parents of Dry den, 
Addison, Rowe, and Young. Dryden's Tragedies 
have some redeeming passages, but as a whole 
they are essentially and utterly bad. For cha- 
racter, passion, action, or interest, we search 
through them in vain. Their Author has, indeed, 
confessed his own conviction that his powers were 
not adapted for Dramatic writing, and that he had 



ENGLISH POETRY. 139 

meditated the production of an Epic Poem, but 
that the taste of the age afforded him no encou- 
ragement for such a task. 

*' Dryden in immortal strain, 

Had raised the Table Round again, 
But that a ribald King and Court, 
Bade him toil on to make them sport : 
demanding for their niggard pay, 
Fit for their souls, a looser lay. 
Licentious Satire, Song, and Play." 

Otway is a writer of a very different stamp ; 
and, as a Dramatist, of a far higher order ; al- 
though the plague-spots of the age are upon him, 
licentiousness in his Comic, and bombast and tur- 
gidity in his Tragic scenes. But in the latter, 
where he does not attempt to be sublime, where 
he confines himself to his own element, the pathetic, 
I know of no writer who can produce effects more 
powerful than his. The reception of his '* Venice 
Preserved,'^ and '* Orphan" on the Stage, when 
supported by histrionic talent at all commensurate 
to their merits, is the most triumphant attestation 
of his pathetic powers that can be imagined. 
Mirth may be forced ; rapture may be affected ; but 
tears are unequivocal evidences of the intensity 
and genuineness of the feeling which they express. 



140 LECTURES ON 

Otway is not remarkable either for skilfulness in 
the construction of his plots, or truth and force in 
the delineation of his characters. The plot of the 
** Orphan'' is as clumsy as it is indelicate; and 
that of " Venice Preserved'' full of glaring impro- 
babilities. Of his characters, Pierre is the only 
one which shews any thing like the finish of the 
master. The best of the others are but sketches. 
Jaffier is intended by the Author for the likeness 
of a person of naturally virtuous disposition, driven 
by the uncontrollable influence of oppression and 
misfortune, to deeds of desperation and crime. 
But Jaffier, as delineated, is incapable of exciting 
any feeling but one of unmixed contempt. His 
affection is puerile and drivelling ; his friendship, 
perfidy and treachery^ ; and what is meant to be 
represented as his return to the principles of 
honour and virtue, is but the craven misgivings of 
pusillanimity and fear. 

The beauty and delicacy of Otway's imagery 
will be seen in the following example ; which is, 
however, almost too trite for quotation : — 

" You took her up a little tender flower, 

Just sprouted on a bank, which the next frost 

Had nipt, and with a careful, loving hand, 

Transplanted her into your own fair garden. 

Where the Sun always shines. There long she flourished ; 



ENGLISH POETRY. 141 

Grew sweet to sense, and lovely to the eye ; 
Till at the last a cruel spoiler came, 
Cropt this fair rose, and rifled all if s sweetness, 
Then threw it like a loathsome weed away." 

That his descriptive powers were also of a high 
order, one instance will suffice to prove : — 

" Through a close lane as I pursued my journey, 
And meditated on my last night's vision, 
I spied a wither'd hag, with age grown double, 
Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself; 
Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red, 
Cold Palsy shook her head, her hands seem'd wither'd, 
And on her crooked shoulders had she wi'apt 
The tatter'd renmant of an old striped hanging, 
Which served to keep her carcass from the cold ; 
So there was nothing of a piece about her. 
Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patch'd 
With different colour'd rags, black, red, white, yellow, 
And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness." 

The minute and powerful detail of this picture 
would sustain a comparison with the most celebra- 
ted efforts of the Dutch and Flemish schools. 

Nathaniel Lee's Dramas are full of faults ; 
faults of the least venial nature ; but they are evi- 
dently the productions of a man of genius, and do 
not betray a single indication of imbecility or dul- 
ness. Their characteristics are summed up in a 
saying of his own. When the unfortunate Author 



142 LECTURES ON 

was confined in a straight waistcoat in Bedlam, a 
scribbler who went to visit him, had the cruelty to 
jeer at his dreadful malady, by observing that it 
was an easy thing to write like a madman : — " No," 
said Lee, " it is not an easy thing to write like a 
madman ; but it is very easy to write like a fool." 

Lee's scenes have nothing of the fool, but much 
of the madman in them. They are full of strong 
and violent effort ; sometimes well and powerfully 
directed, but often falling short of the object at 
which it aims. There are passages in Lee's 
** Alexander" in his " TJieocIosius,'' and in his 
portion of " CEdipus" — which he wrote in con- 
junction with Dryden, — which are not unworthy of 
the brightest names in our dramatic annals. Oc- 
casionally too, he could touch a softer note, and 
waken the tenderest and most pleasing emotions. 
The following lines on the Nightingale are full of 
sweetness and pathos : — 

" Thus in some poplar shade the Nightingale, 
With piercing moans does her lost young bewail; 
Which the rough hind, observing as they lay 
Warm in their downy nest, had stolen away : 
But she in mournful sounds does still complain, 
Sings all the night, though all her songs are vain, 
And still renews her miserable strain.*' 



ENGLISH POETRY. 143 

John Crowne was an Author of much repute at 
the period in which he wrote, but, after a painful 
examination of his writings, I have found very 
little which is worth remembering. I have heard 
of a French work, which consisted of the witti- 
cisms of persons who never said more than one 
good thing in their lives. I have not found many 
more in the works of John Crowne, but one is so 
good that I cannot resist the quotation of it : — 

" Thy wit, thy valour, and thy delicate form, 

Were mighty faults which the world could not pardon. 
No wonder the vile envy of the base 
Pursued thee, when the noble could not bear thee : 
They cursed thee, as Negroes curse the Sun, 
Because thy shining glories blacken'd them." 

Of the remaining Tragedians of this School, 
Rowe, Hughes, Aaron Hiii, Phillips, and Young ; 
the first, and the last only, are worthy of our at- 
tention. Rowe, though deeply infected with the 
false French taste which was then fashionable, was 
not unacquainted with the early English writers, 
and some beneficial eff*ects from this acquaintance 
are visible in all his Dramas. Perhaps his versifi- 
cation is the best part about him ; and his blank 
verse has a flow and an easy sweetness, which are 
advantageously contrasted to the tumidity of Dry- 



144 LECTURES ON 

den, and the feebleness of Otway. His *' Jane 
Shoi^e/* in which he professedly imitated Shak- 
speare, and his *' Fair Penitent" which is an au- 
dacious plagiarism from Massinger, are the best 
of his productions. Although they do not speak 
much for his originality, they are creditable to his 
taste ; and prove, I think, that it was no defect in 
his own judgment, but a compliance with the 
popular opinion, that led him to French models for 
the general cast and character of his works. 

Young^s Tragedies of the *' Revenue/' *' Bu- 
siris" and the " Brothers" are evidently the 
productions of no ordinary mind. For high and 
eloquent declamation, they are equal to any thing 
which the French School has produced, either in 
it's native soil, or in our imitative Gountrv. Thoug-h 
the first is the only one of these three Tragedies 
which keeps possession of the Stage, yet *' Bu- 
siris" appears to me to possess the most merit. 
The principal character is drawn with as much 
force and decision as Zanga, but has more of real 
human nature in it's composition. Zanga is a fine 
Poetical study; the grandeur of the conception, 
and the power of the execution, are equal'; but it 
has not much of truth or Nature in it's composition. 
Compare it with the lago of Shakspeare, of which 
it is evidently a copy, and it is like comparing a 



ENGLISH POETRY. 145 

lay figure with a Statue. One is a fitting vehicle 
to convey to us the drapery of the Poet's fancy, 
and the folds and forms in which he chooses to 
array it; but the other has the truth and power of 
Nature stamped upon every Umb. 

But it is not in the Tragedy of this period that 
we are to look for the Dramatic Genius of Eng- 
land. She took refuge in the arms of Comedy. 
A race of brilliant, but profligate, Wits arose, 
whose powers are only eclipsed by those of the 
worthies of the Elizabethan age : Wycherley, Far- 
quhar, Sedley, Etherege, Durfey, Centlivre, Van- 
brugh, Congreve, Hoadley, Gibber, and Gay; 
these are names, of which, notwithstanding their 
blemishes, our Nation cannot, and ought not to be 
otherwise than proud. The Dramas of the ages of 
Elizabeth and Charles, are diametrically opposite to 
each other, both in their excellencies and their de- 
fects. The first are all Nature, but Nature in her 
sweetest, truest, and most graceful forms : the se- 
cond are all Art, but Art in her most polished, plea- 
sing, and elegant costumes. The first painted pas- 
sions; the second, manners : the first led us through 
the mazes of the human heart ; the second makes 
us acquainted with the modes of human society. 
In the first, we find Geography, Chronology, and 
propriety of costume and manners, set at defiance, 

H 



146 LECTURES ON 

In the second we find unity of character, and 
natural sentiment and passion, treated with equal 
indifference. If Shakspeare can unlock the se- 
crets of the human heart, he cares not to ship- 
wreck a vessel on the coast of Bohemia, or to 
make Pandarus of Troy talk about Winchester 
geese. If Congreve can dazzle by his brilliant 
dialogue, and his smart repartee, he does not 
shrink from putting the most splendid wit into 
the mouths of his fools, and exhibiting characters 
who are sunk in the depths of disaster, full of 
sprightliness and merriment. Shakspeare makes 
us forget the Author ; Congreve makes us think 
of no one else. We rise from the scenes of the 
firsts overwhelmed with the sorrows of Hamlet, 
or of Othello, or of Lear, We close the pages 
of the second, charmed with the wit, the spright- 
liness, and the vivacity of Congreve. 

I have chosen Congreve as the champion and 
exemplar of the second School, because he is, 
in many particulars, the most eminent Scholar 
which it has produced. Wit was it's grand dis- 
tinguishing feature, and Congreve was one of the 
wittiest writers that, perhaps, any age or nation has 
given birth to. But tke Dramatist has to paint 
character, and he who has only one colour in 
which to dip his pencil, Wit, cannot produce a 



ENGLISH POETRY. ^ 147 

true, a natural, or even a permanently pleasing 
picture. We may gaze upon the Sun till we see 
nothing but darkling motes ; and so Congreve's 
scenes fatigue us by their very brilliancy. All his 
characters are like himself, witty. They are, if I 
may borrow an image from the Hindoo Mytho- 
logy, all Avaters of the Author; they have no in- 
dividuality, no specific likeness. What Churchill 
said of Quin as an Actor, may be applied to Con- 
greve as a writer : — 

" Self still like oil upon the surface play'd, 

And marr'd th' impression that the Author made." 

Still, as pictures of manners and society, the 
writings of Congreve, and his contemporaries, 
and immediate predecessors, are invaluable. They 
have made the age of furbelows and brocade, 
shoe-buckles and hoop-petticoats, live for ever. 
They have rendered the Parks classic ground. 
They have made the very air there, redolent of 
wit and pleasantry. Rotten-R,ow, the Mulberry- 
Walk, and the Mall, are as immortal as the plains 
of Troy, or the fields of Marathon. Every walk, 
every turning, is peopled with the gay creations of 
Congreve, of Farquhar, and of Vanbrugh. We 
expect to see Sir Fopling Flutter, or Sir Harry 
Wildair on every bench. We hear the gay laugh 

h2 



148 LECTURES ON 

of Clarinda on every breeze ; and the stately 
figures of Millamont, and Belinda, and Clarissa, 
glide past the mind's eye as youthful and as be- 
witching as ever. 

Congreve had, I think, high Tragic powers, if 
he had chosen to exert them, and to give them 
their full and natural play. When he wrote the 
" Mourning Bride" he thought it necessary to 
mount himself upon stilts. I do not, therefore, 
refer to that Play, when I allude to him as a 
Tragedian. But there are touches of pathos, and 
even of sublimity, in some of his Comic scenes, 
which show the hand of a master. The destitute 
condition of Valentine in " Love for Love,'' is 
strongly, and even powerfully, painted ; and the 
characters of MasJcwell, and of Lord and Lady 
Touchwood, in the ** Way of the World,'' are 
full of the Poetry of passion, and of interest. 
The serious scenes in Vanburgh*s " Provoked 
Husband" have been much admired, but they are 
nothing in comparison with those in which these 
characters appear; and set off as they are, by 
the broad Comedy, and almost Farce, of Lord 
Frisk, Brisk, and Lady Pliant, they produce an 
effect which reminds us, " not to speak it pro- 
fanely," of that produced by the juxtaposition of 
the Fcol and Lear » 



ENGLISH POETRY. 149 

Farquhar has not the wit of Congreve, but he 
has more humour ; and is, on the whole, a far better 
Dramatist. His Plots are not so elaborately con- 
structed, but they have more vitality in them ; they 
are brought about in a more natural manner; and the 
Characters contribute more to their developement. 
The observations which I have made on the want of 
individuality, and specific likeness of character, will 
apply less to the scenes of Farquhar, than to those of 
any of his contemporaries. His characters are often 
drawn improbably, and out of nature, but still they 
are active personages, and agents in the Drama, 
which cannot be very often said of Congreve. He 
also possesses much genuine humour, as his cha- 
racters of Sir Harry Wildair, Beau Clincher, 
and Serjeant Kite, sufficiently shew. Farquhar 
has more of the kindly spirit of the old English 
Dramatists about him, than any writer of his times : 
and is a less bitter Satirist than either Congreve, 
Wycherley, or Vanbrugh. His arrows are bright 
and keen, but those of his contemporaries are 
poisoned: Farquhar makes the sides ache, but 
Vanbrugh makes the heart ache also. 

The last-mentioned author is as appalHng a Sa- 
tirist as Swift. His pictures of human nature are 
hideously like ; they are true to the very wrinkle. 
Swift said that he hated the Ourang Outang, be- 



150 LECTURES ON 

cause it was so like us ; and so we may say 
of Vanbrugh's delineations of character. All the 
vices of humanity are treasured up in them ; yet they 
are not natural delineations. They are the bad parts 
of human nature picked out and separated from those 
redeeming qualities, which scarcely the vilest of 
mankind are not without. Such writers as Vanbrugh 
and Swift do not use the vices and follies of mankind 
for the purpose of instruction or amusement ; but 
stand aloof from humanity like the Mephistophiles 
of Goethe, and make it's weaknesses audit's crimes 
the objects of their fiend-like derision. 

These three Authors occupy the foremost places in 
that School of Comedy, which flourished in England 
from the days of Charles the Second, to those of 
Anne. I have endeavoured, briefly and succinctly, 
to sum up their merits and defects. They were 
certainly vastly inferior the Dramatists of the Eli- 
zabethan age ; but, they were at least as much 
superior to any School which has succeeded them. 
The Elizabethan writers possessed great advan- 
tages from the character of the times in which they 
lived. They revelled in the holiday of intellect; 
in the sweet Spring morning of wit and genius, 
which dawned upon the world after the long and 
gothic darkness of the middle ages. The genius 
of a Shakspeare cannot be expected to revisit us. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 151 

until after the concurrence of circumstances similar 
to those by which the age in which he existed was 
preceded. Like the dew of the early morning, 
darkness and gloom must once more envelope the 
Earth, before we can gaze upon it again. 

The attack of Jeremy Collier upon the profligacy 
and licentiousness of the Stage, although it's effects 
were not immediately felt, ultimately proved the 
destruction of this School of Comedy. Congreve 
confessed his fault; and Vanbrugh and Cibber 
wrote the " Provoked Husband" of which the 
tendency is unexceptionable, as an expiation for 
the immorality of their former productions. 

This Comedy may be said to have given rise to 
the Sentimental School ; the most meretricious and 
contemptible of all the demons of dulness which 
ever possessed the Stage. I do not, of course, 
mean to apply this censure to the very elegant 
production which I have just mentioned, and 
from which I have considered this School as taking 
it's rise ; nor to the Comedies of Sir Richard 
Steele, who may be ranked amongst it's adherents. 
The last mentioned Author had a quiet natural 
vein of humour, and a delicate perception of the 
foibles of human character, which give great zest 
and interest to his scenes : though even in his 
works we find the Comic Muse somewhat abated 



152 LECTURES ON 

of those smiles which are hers by prescriptive right. 
She affects the grave airs of her Tragic Sister, and 
wears them, at the best, but awkwardly. She may 
smile, but she never laughs : — 

" Mirth that wrinkled Care derides, 
And Laughter holding both his sides," 

are banished from the works of the Sentimental 
Writers. A well-bred simper, or a demure dim- 
ple, is the utmost extent of hilarity in which they 
indulge. What an uproar, what a devastation, 
would the introduction of such a person as Sir 
John Falstaff among the Dramatis Personae of 
our modern playwrights, occasion ! How would 
Lady Elinor Irwin receive the addresses of such 
a person as Sir Tohy Belch ? and how would Old 
Dorntonlook, if he-found young Master Launcelot 
Gohho capering about his banking house ? In 
truth, this Sentimental style of writing is the most 
artificial and worthless that was ever imposed upon 
the public, in the name of Comedy. Goldsmith 
wrote amidst the very hey-day of this fashionable 
folly ; but he rolled his own pure tide of wit and 
humour through, and stainless and unmixed with 
the surrounding vortex, as the River "Rhone rushes 
through the Lake of Geneva. His two admirable 
Comedies of the *' Good Natured Man" and 



ENGLISH POETRY. 153 

" She Stoops to Conquer, ^^ are the greenest spots 
in the Dramatic waste of the period of -which we 
are speaking". They are worthy of the Author of 
the " Vicar of Wakefield;^ and to praise them 
more highly is impossible. Wit, without licen- 
tiousness ; Humour, without extravagance ; brilliant 
and elegant dialogue ; and forcible but natural 
delineation of character ; are the excellencies with 
which his pages are prodigally strewn. 

Cumberland was the last, and the best of the 
Sentimental School. His Genius was of too mas- 
culine a character to submit entirely to the fetters 
which the popular prejudices would impose upon 
it ; and his taste too pure, to relish the sickly 
viands with which the public appetite was palled. 
But, even in the extinction of this School, we 
cannot congratulate ourselves in the elevation of 
any thing better in it's place. '* Bad begins, but 
worse remains behind." Our present Lecture has 
been a history of the gradual declension of the 
British Drama: — 

" We have fallen upon our gloomy days» 
Star after star decays ; 
Every bright name that shed 
Light o'er the land is fled \" 

The Shakspearean School was succeeded by 
that of Congreve : there we sunk a step, but we 

h3 



154 LECTURES ON 

were on a lofty eminence still. The Congreve 
School gave place to that of the Sentimental 
Artists. This was a more fearful declension : but 
even here we met with elegant writers, although 
we looked in vain for skilful or interesting Dra- 
matists. The next *' change that comes o'er the 
spirit of our dream/' presents us with the ultra 
German horrors of Lewis, and his School. This 
is the very Antipodes of the Sentimental School : 
the badge and banner of one is the cambric hand- 
kerchief; of the other the gory dagger. Instead 
of high flown sentiments of virtue and honour, we 
have murderers and spectres ; trap-doors and long 
corridors; daggers and poison-bowls; faces whitened 
over with meal, and hands looking as sanguinary 
as red paint can make them. This School has also 
had it's day, and fallen into the '' sere and yellow 
leaf," to make way for Juvenile Roscii, Elephants, 
and rope-dancers ! Various entertainments have 
since been resorted to for the edification and 
amusement of the enlightened public. Sometimes 
it has been treated with the sight of a Monkey 
which can dance on the tight rope like a man ; and 
at others, with a Man who can climb trees and crack 
nuts like a Monkey, For such refined amuse- 
ments as these have we exchanged the Genius of 
our early Dramatists : a jewel, which, as Shylock 



ENGLISH POETRY. 155 

says, *' we would not have given for a wilderness 
of monkeys." Occasionally, however, a gleam of 
light has broken in upon the general gloom of the 
Dramatic hemisphere; and the names of Foote, 
Garrick, Colman the Elder, and, ** the greatest is 
behind,'' Sheridan, shew, amidst the surrounding 
mass of dulness and folly, like the stars of heaven, 
more fiery by night's blackness. 

Sheridan is, indeed, a golden link which con- 
nects us with the Authors of better days. He 
has wit; pure, polished, genuine wit. He has 
humour ; not, perhaps, of quite so pure an order, 
a little forced and overstrained, but it's root is in 
Nature, whatever aberrations it may spread into 
in it's branches. His dialogue is of matchless 
brilliancy ; so brilliant as to enchain the attention 5 
and to blind us to the grand defect of his Plays, 
their want of action, and of what is technically 
called, business. This defect alone shuts out 
Sheridan from taking his place by the side of the 
elder Dramatists, and assigns him his situation a 
step lower among the writers of the age of Charles. 
He is, however, free from their impurities of 
thought and language; their equal in wit, and 
their superior in genuine humour. 

The Drama of the present day is, with some 
few exceptions, a compound of all the vices which 



156 LECTURES ON 

characterised the preceding Schools ; excepting*,^ 
I am happy to say, the profligacy of the writers of 
the Restoration. If we are dull, we are, at least, 
decent. The Dramas, however, which are now 
produced, are as lawless and irregular as the 
writers of the Elizabethan School ; turgid and 
bombastic as the Tragedies which succeeded it ; 
mawkish as the Comedies of the Sentimentalists; 
and extravagant and outrageous as the maddest 
productions of Germany. The works of Joanna 
Baillie — unquestionably the greatest Dramatist 
who has appeared here since the Restoration, — 
are driven from the Stage ; and, although Shaks- 
peare is still endured, he is made to bow his 
" eminent tops to our low heads ;" his Tragedies 
must have a happy ending, and his Comedies must 
be *' interspersed with Songs." But then, the 
tricks of Harlequin, the mysteries of Melo Drame, 
the prancing of real horses, and the tumbling of 
real water ; these are surely enough to compensate 
for the absence of Shakspeare, and all his trumper3\ 
We have passed, it may be thought, a severe 
censure upon the present state of the English 
Drama ; but, we speak it " more in sorrow than in 
anger." When we consider the splendid heritage 
of talent and genius which we derive from our 
ancestors; when we recollect the immortal pro- 



ENGLISH POETRY. 157 

ductions which have been bequeathed to the Eng- 
lish Stage, from the days of Shakspeare to those 
of Sheridan ; when we mark, too, the energy and 
intelligence of the present day, as shewn in every 
other quarter, while the Stage alone is usurped 
by imbecility and dulness ; — the mingled feelings 
of shame and astonishment are too powerful for 
their expression to be repressed. The causes of 
this national degradation are various. One of the 
most obvious and powerful, unquestionably is the 
enormous size of the Theatres. The Music of the 
voice, the magic of the eye, the passion and pro- 
priety of the gestures, these are the true and 
legitimate elements of Dramatic effect; but these, 
in the immense area upon which they are exerted, 
are lost to the largest proportion of the auditory. 
Hence, the actor distorts his features, strains his 
voice, and throws himself into violent and unna- 
tural attitudes; and when it is at length found 
that even these fail of producing the requisite 
effect, then pomp and shew, decoration and noise, 
unmeaning bustle and preposterous parade, are 
called in to fill up the melancholy hiatus. 

Accordingly, the Managers and the public sus- 
tain a re-action from each other ; the former create 
in the latter an appetite for Spectacle and shew ; 
and the appetite thus created in the latter, calls upon 



158 LECTURES ON 

the former for fresh efforts to gratify it. Thus the 
state of things may be prolonged ad infinitum, 
unless some voice should be raised sufficiently 
powerful to induce a change of system. 

But, potent as are the causes to which we have 
last alluded, in promoting the degeneracy of the 
Drama, still it must not be disguised that these are 
not solely the origin of the evil. The incompe- 
tency of the Authors in whose hands rests the task 
of winning the public taste back to the legitimate 
Drama, is another, and not less influential cause. 
The Spectacles and Pageants with which the 
Managers feast the eyes of their Audiences, are as 
nearly as possible, perfect in their way. The 
Tragedies and Comedies which are occasionally 
produced, are the farthest possible removed from 
the standard to which they aspire. The Public 
chooses between them ; and we can scarcely blame 
it's decision : — 

'* Now forced, at length, her ancient reign to quit. 
Nature sees Dulness lay the ghost of Wit ; 
Exulting Folly hails the joyous day, 
And Pantomime and Song confirm her sway." 



ENGLISH POETRY. 159 



LECTURE THE FIFTH. 



DIDACTIC, DESCRIPTIVE, PASTORAL, AND 
SATIRICAL POETRY. 

Nature of Didactic and Descriptive Poetry : — Death and Life, 
the earliest Specimen of English Blank Verse : — Bishop 
Hall's Satires: — Brown's Pastorals: — Donne: — Butler's 
Hudibras: — Dryden, Pope, Akenside, Dyer, Armstrong, 
Young, and Goldsmith: — Tho-mson's Seasons : — Cowjyer. 

Our Lectures have already exhausted the more 
interesting topics, which a review of the history 
and merits of English Poetry presents to our con- 
sideration. The Harvest is past ; and, we have 
now little more to do, than to garner in the com- 
paratively scanty gleanings, which remain behind. 
The subject of the present Lecture is English 
Didactic, and Descriptive Poetry ; including Pas- 
toral and Satire. The Didactic Muse has been 
called " the least attractive of the Nine ;" but if 
she has less beauty, she has, perhaps, more truth 
than her sisters. If she cannot soar as high^ she 
treads more firmly. She addresses herself, not to 



180 LECTURES ON 

the Imagination and the heart, but to the under- 
standing. She seeks not to please the fancy, but 
to improve the mind. She is, in fact, however, 
scarcely a legitimate denizen of the world of 
Poetry. She is too nearly allied to Prose, to 
mingle quite freely and gracefully with those gay 
*' creatures of the elements," who people the re- 
gions of Fancy. She is an amphibious animal ; 
*' parcel woman, parcel fish." She has powers 
Vvhich those who are exclusively confined to either 
element, do not possess ; but then in neither does 
she move with the same freedom and unconstrain- 
edness as they do. She has not the real sober 
prose step of the Historian arid the Essayist, any 
more than she has the bold and fearless pinion of 
the Epic Poet, and the Dramatist. She has not 
" angelic wings, nor feeds on manna." She has 
rather the wings of the flying-fish, which, for a 
moment, elevate her towards the heaven of Poe- 
try, whence she soon sinks exhausted, into her 
own native element of Prose. 

The works of the Descriptive and Pastoral 
Muses are to the Epic and the Drama, what a 
trim and elegant flower-garden is to the wildness 
and magnificence of unadorned Nature ; who is, 
" when unadorned, adorned the most." The de- 
scriptive passages which spring up amidst all the 



ENGLISH POETRY. 161 

awfulness and sublimity of Shakspeare and Mil- 
ton, are like the delicious fruits and fragrant 
flowers which are found among the grandest and 
most terrific passages of Alpine scenery ; while 
the continuous descriptions of Thomson and Cow- 
per, are like flowers of every imaginable form 
and hue, exotic and native, got together and 
crowded into one bed. They bring home to those 
who cannot go in search of them, those treasures 
of Nature, which bolder spirits are content to 
scale Alpine steeps, and dive amidst mountain 
torrents to attain. The mind is not always pre- 
pared to accompany Shakspeare or Milton in their 
daring flights, any more than the body is always 
at leisure to undertake a journey to the Andes, or 
the Appenines. Then the pages of Goldsmith, 
and Thomson, and Cov/per, yield as much enjoy- 
ment to the one, as the velvet lawn and the gaily 
ornamented parterre do to the other. 

English Poetry has been, from the earliest pe- 
riod, as rich in description as the English taste has 
been observed to be particularly attached to ex- 
ternal Nature. The humblest and most closely- 
confined denizens of our English Cities have 
been remarked by foreigners to cherish this taste 
in the possession of a box of mignonette, a vase 
of flowers, or a solitary myrtle, or geranium. So^ 



162 LECTURES ON 

too, in the most humble of our versifiers, if they 
possess aoy Poetical powers at all, they will be 
roused into action by the inspiration excited on 
beholding the face of Nature. 

The earliest English Poets were fond and acute 
observers of Nature. The touches of scenic de- 
scription in the ancient Ballads are numerous and 
beautiful ; and Percy has preserved a fine relique of 
an old descriptive Poem, entitled ** Death and 
Life,^^ the beauties of which cannot fail to be per- 
ceived, even through the veil of uncouth and an- 
tique language in which they are enveloped. The 
Poem is supposed by Percy to have been written 
as early as, if not earlier than, the time of Lang- 
baine ; and it is curious, as the oldest specimen 
of Blank Verse in our language. The following 
is an allegorical description of Life : — 

" She was brighter of her blee, than was the bright Sonne ; 
Her rudd redder than the rose, that on the rise hangeth. 
Meekly smiling with her mouth, and merry in her lookes ; 
Ever laughing for love, as she the like wolde. 
And as shee came by the banks, the boughs eche one 
They lowted to that ladye, and lay'd forth their branches ; 
Blossoms and burgens breathed full sweete : 
Flowers flourish'd in the frith, where she forth stepp'd ; 
And the grass that was grey, greened belive." 

But it is to that golden age of our Literature, 



ENGLISH POETRY. 163 

the reign of Queen Elizabeth, that we must look 
for the earliest, and some of the best, specimens 
of Satire and Pastoral ; considered as a class of 
Poetry, distinct from, and unmixed with, any 
other. I allude more particularly to the Satires 
of Bishop Hall, and the " Britannia's Pastoixils" 
of William Browne ; two names which, I believ e, 
are still '* caviare to the million;" are unknown to 
the general reader; and are not admitted into 
many of the collections of the general body of 
English Poetry. To Mr. Warton the public are 
indebted for having first drawn their attention to 
the beauties of Hall. This powerful and truly ori- 
ginal writer is the earliest professed Satirist 
among our Poets ; and he has himself alluded to 
that fact with a proud and pardonable egotism : — • 

" I first adventure, follow me who list, 
And be the Second English Satirist.'' 

His Satires, besides their own intrinsic Poetical 

excellencies, are valuable to the Antiquary as 
presenting a most vivid and faithful picture of the 
manners of our ancestors ; their fashions, follies, 
vices, and peculiarities. These Hall has touched 
with a powerful and unsparing hand. Scribblers, 
Lawyers, Parsons, Physicians, all those unforta- 



164 LECTURES ON 

nate classes of men, who have, from time imme* 
morial, enjoyed the unenvied privilege of at- 
tracting the peculiar notice of the Satiric Muse, 
are by him laid bare and shrinking to the scorn 
and hatred of Mankind. Hall is, I believe, well 
known as a Divine : his Sermons and Meditations 
having procured him a high rank among polemical 
writers. It is my object, however, to notice him 
merely as a Poet, and I shall, therefore, make a 
few extracts from his Satires. The following tirade 
against the Legal Profession is a fair specimen of 
the force and fearlessness of his style : — 

" Woe to the weal where many Lawyers be, 
For there is sure much store of malady : 
'Twas truly said, and truly was foreseen, 
The fat kine are devoured of the lean. 
Genus and species long since barefoot went 
Upon their ten toes, in wild wonderment; 
Whiles Father Bartol on his footcloth rode, 
Upon high pavement, gayly silver-strew'd. 
Each home-bred Science percheth in the chair, 
While Sacred Arts grovel on the groundsell bare ; 
Since pedling barbarisms 'gan be in request, 
Nor classic tongues, nor Learning found no rest. 
The crouching Client with low bended knee. 
And many worships and fair flatteiy. 
Tells on his tale as smoothly as he list ; 
But still the Lawyer's eye squints on his fist; 
If that seem lined with a larger fee. 
Doubt not the suit, the law is plain for thee. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 165 

Though must he buy his vainer hope with price, 
Disclout his crowns, and thank him for advice. 
So have I seen, in a tempestuous stowre, 
Some briar bush shew shelter from the shower, 
Unto the hopeful sheep, that fain would hide 
His fleecy coat from that same angry tide : 
The ruthless briar, regardless of his plight, 
Lays hold upon the fleece he should acquite ; 
And takes advantage of the careless prey. 
That thought she in securer shelter lay. 
The day is fair, the sheep would far to feed, 
The tyrant briar holds fast his shelter's meed, 
And claims it for the fee of his defence. 
So robs the sheep in favour's fair pretence." 

The following lines are in ridicule of the Ama- 
tory Poetry of the age, and of the exaggerated 
compliments which the Poets addressed to their 

Mistresses : — 

"As witty Pontan in great earnest said. 

His Mistress' breasts were like two weights of lead ; 

Another thinks her teeth might liken'd be, 

To two fair ranks of pales of ivory ; 

To fence in, sure, the wild beast of her tongue,. 

From either going far, or going wrong ; 

Her grinders like two chalk-stones in a mill. 

Which shall with time and wearing wax as ill 

As old Catillas, who doth every night 

Lay up her holy pegs till next daylight. 

And with thein grind soft simp'ring all the day ; 

When, lest her laughter should her mouth betray, 



166 LECTURES ON 

Her hands must hide it; if she would but smile, 
Fain would she seem all fire, and frolic still : 
Her forehead fair is like a brazen hill, 
Whose wrinkled furrows which her age doth breed, 
Are daubed full of Venice chalk for need ; 
Her eyes, like silver saucers fair beset 
With shining amber, and with shady let ; 
Her lids like Cupid's bow-case, where he'll hide 
The weapon that doth wound the wanton eyed : 
Her chin, like Pindus', or Parnassus' hill. 
Where down descends the flowing stream, doth fill 
The well of her fair mouth. Each hath his praise, 
Who would not but wed Poets now-a-days !" 

That Hall could compliment as elegantly, as he 
could satirise unsparingly, a short Epigram will, 
however, amply prove. It is entitled, — 

" ON MR. GREENHAM'S BOOK OF THE SABBATH. 

While Greenham writeth on the Sabbath's rest, 
His Soul enjoys not what his pen exprest : 
His work enjoys not what itself doth say, 
For it shall never find one resting day. 
A thousand hands shall toss each page and line, 
Which shall be scanned by a thousand eyne. 
This Sabbath's rest, or that Sabbath's unrest, 
'Tis hard to say which is the happiest." 

Brown is one of the sweetest Pastoral Writers 
in the world. It has been complained, that Eng- 
lish Literature, however rich in other respects, 



ENGLISH POETRY. 167 

is very defective in Pastoral Poetry ; but this is a 
complaint which can only be made by Critics who 
are ignorant of the existence of such a writer as 
Brown. Of the more popular Pastorals, the arti- 
ficial affectations of Shenstone, Phillips, Hammond, 
and a thousand others, I wish to say little or no- 
thing. The tinsel is by this time pretty well rub- 
bed off the meretricious baubles which so long 
pleased the public taste ; and the trumpery mate- 
rials of which all their finery was composed, is be- 
ginning to be properly appreciated. A Poem is 
no longer supposed to be wonderfully natural and 
Pastoral, merely because it makes love rhyme to 
dove ; breeze to trees ; and mountains to fountains. 
The Shepherds and Shepherdesses, or rather the 
Ladies and Gentlemen in disguise, hke the Beef- 
eater in Sheridan's " Critic,'' who sat upon green 
hillocks, with Pastoral pipes in their hands, talking 
about Love and Arcadia, have been discovered to 
be veryinsipid and unnatural personages, ever since 
readers have made use of their eyes, looked into 
the world and Nature for themselves, and found 
that no such society, or scenery, is, or ever was, in 
existence. Brown is a writer thoroughly and en- 
tirely English. His scenery is English. He paints 
not Arcadia, or Utopia ; but he takes us to the leafy 
shores of Devon, and the fertile banks of Tamar and 



168 LECTURES ON 

describes their beauties with the ardour of a lover, and 
the truth of a Painter. He does not introduce us 
to Naiads, or Dryads; to Pan, or to Apollo; but 
to the fair and smihng faces with which our own 
green fields are peopled, and to the rustic manners 
of the English Villages. His Music is not of the 
oaten stop, or of the pastoral pipe, or of the wild 
harp of antiquity ; but of the ploughman's whistle, 
the milkmaid's song, the sheep- bell, the minstrelsy 
rung out from beneath some neighbouring spire. 
Shepherds piping all night under some hawthorn 
bush are not often seen in our northern climate ; 
and Dryads, and Nymphs, and Satyrs, harmonise 
as ill with the features of EngHsh scenery, as Dr. 
Bentley, in the celebrated picture which decorates 
a certain public building in London, swimming 
with his wig and gown on, in the Thames, does 
with the water nymphs and tritons who surround 
him. Browne confines himself to the scenery, and 
to the manners, which he has seen and known. 
His works, although full of truth and nature, are 
rich in Poetry and imagination : for to these nature 
and truth are not opposed, but are the best and 
surest inspirers and auxiliaries. The Poet's address 
to England is full of patriotism and feeling: — 

'' Hail ! thou my native soil, thou blessed spot 
Whose equal all the world affordeth not ; 



ENGLISH POETRY. 169 

Shew me, who can, so many crystal rills, 

Such well-clothed vallies, or aspiring hills ; 

Such wood-grounds, pastures, quarries, wealthy mines; 

Such rocks, in whom the diamond fairly shines ; 

And if the Earth can show the like again, 

Yet will she fail in her sea-ruling men." 

Brown, however, in enumerating the excellent 
productions of our native Island, has very ungallantly 
omitted one, which did not escape the notice of 
Thomson, when making a similar enumeration: — 

" May my song soften, as thy daughters, I, 
Britannia ! hail, for beauty is their own." 

I subjoin one other instance of his descriptive 
powers, which is said, by those acquainted with 
the scenery described, — the banks of the Tamar, 
in Devonshire, — to be an extraordinarily faithful 
delineation of the spot :— 

'' Between two rocks, immortal without mother, 
That stand as if outfacing one another. 
There ran a creek up, intricate and blind. 
As if the waters hid them from the wind, 
Which never wash'd, but at a higher tide. 
The frizzled cotes which do the mountains hide ; 
Where never gale was longer known to stay, 
Than from the smooth wave it had swept away 
The new divorced leaves, that.from each side 
Left the thick boughs to dance out with the tide. 

I 



170 LECTURES ON 

At further end the creek, a stately wood 
Gave a kind shadow to the brackish flood ; 
Made up of trees, not less kenn'd by each skiff. 
Than that sky-scaling peak of Teneriffe ; 
Upon whose tops the hernshaw bred her young, 
And hoary moss upon their branches hung j 
Whose rugged rinds sufficient were to shew, 
Without their height, what time they 'gan to grow." 

Donne is another of our best ancient Satirists, 
and was also, like Hall, a dignified Prelate ; 
having been Rector of St. Dunstan's in the \Yest, 
and Dean of St. Paul's. He was the founder of 
that School in Poetry which has been somewhat 
improperly styled the Metaphysical ; which attained 
it's greatest elevation in Cowley, and may be said 
to have become extinct with Spratt. Donne is as 
full of far-fetched conceits, and recondite illustra- 
tions, or rather obscurations, as Cowley ; without, 
however, being possessed of any thing approaching 
to the same genuine Poetical powers. Still he is 
a writer of great fancy and ingenuity. His Satires 
are more remarkable for wit, than for severity. 
He laughs at Vice and Folly ; but holds them up 
to derision, rather than overwhelms them with 
punishment; and, in this respect, offers many 
points of contrast to his brother Satirist, Hall, of 
whom I have just been speaking. The first points 
out the deformity of vice ; the other exhibits it's 



ENGLISH POETRY. 171 

danger. One holds it up to derision ; the other 
to execration. One exposes it to the gibes and 
the jeers of the world ; the other devotes it to 
the axe, the scourge, and the gibbet. 

Butler's " Hudibras" is a production of match- 
less wit and fancy ; but the construction of the 
story, and the delineation of the characters, have 
been praised far beyond their merits. In these 
partiulars it has very slender claims to originality. 
Cervantes is evidently the model which Butler 
followed ; and Hudibras is Don Quixote turned Pu- 
ritan. He has exchanged the helmet of Malbrino 
for the close cap of Geneva. Instead of encoun- 
tering Giants and Enchanters ; he wages war with 
Papists and Prelatists. Instead of couching his 
lance at tilts and tournaments ; he mounts the 
pulpit, and harangues the ** long-eared" multitude. 
He is not quite so unsophisticated a Lunatic as 
Quixote. When his own interest is concerned, 
his apprehension becomes wonderfully keener. 
Like Hamlet, he is but '' mad North-north-west ; 
when the Wind is Southerly, he knows a hawk 
from a hand-saw." Ralpho, in like manner, is 
but a Conventicle edition of Sancho ; but who 
can wonder that Butler should have failed in co- 
pying from such models as these I The Knight of 
La Mancha is, like Shakspeare's Richard, *' him- 

i2 



172 LECTURES ON 

self — alone !" The Book in which his adventures 
are recorded, is — shall I say, perfect? Perhaps, 
I may not apply such an epithet to the production 
of human Genius ; but it is matchless, it is un- 
imitated, it is inimitable. It is, however, possible 
to be a great and powerful genius, and yet to be 
inferior to Cervantes : such is Butler. His Book 
cannot be expected to be so fascinating, for it's sub- 
ject is far more repulsive. The Knight's greatest 
weaknesses are amiable, and of vices he has none. 
We sympathise in all his misfortunes, and almost 
wish him success in his wildest enterprises. We 
can hardly help quarrelling with the Windmills for 
resisting his attack ; and feel inchned to tilt a lance 
in support of his chivalrous assault upon the flock 
of sheep. Butler certainly might have made the 
fanaticism of Hudibras more amiable, and more 
sincere, without at all weakening either the truth 
or the comic force of the picture. As it is, we 
rather turn from it with disgust, than gaze upon it 
with enjoyment. These observations, however, 
apply only to our Author's delineations of character, 
and not to the fine touches of Satire, and to the 
keen and profound observations on morals and 
manners, in which his work is so rich. His genius 
was not Dramatic, but didactic. He was not an 
inventor, but an observer. His Satire is keen 



ENGLISH POETRY. 173 

and caustic ; his wit brilliant and delightful. His 
knowledge of the Arts and Sciences appears to 
have been profound ; and he has brought a won- 
derful variety of attainment and research to the 
embellishment of his Poem. He has also enriched 
it with many beauties of thought and diction, which 
form a strong contrast to it's general ludicrous cast 
and character. Nothing, for instance, can be 
finer than the following lines :— 

" The Moon put oflf her veil of light 
That hides her by the day from sight ; 
Mysterious veil ! of brightness made, 
That's both her lustre and their shade." 

This, besides being poetically beautiful, is philoso- 
phically true; the rays of the Sun being the cause 
of our seeing the Moon by night, and of our not 
seeing her by day. 

Dryden occupies the foremost place in the fore- 
most ranks of English Didactic Writers. We 
have already had occasion to speak of him as a 
Narrative and Dramatic Poet, and shall therefore; 
be proportionably brief in our observations upon 
his merits in the present instance. His Satire is 
appalling, and tremendous; and not the less so, 
for it's extreme polish and splendour. It excites 
our indignation against it's objects, not only ok 



174 LECTURES ON 

account of the follies, or faults, which it imputes to 
them, but also on account of their writhing beneath 
the infliction of so splendid a weapon. We forget 
the offender in the awfulness and majesty of the 
power by which he is crushed. Instead of shrink- 
ing at the horror of the carnage, we are lost in 
admiration of the brilUancy of the victory. Like 
the lightning of heaven, the Satire of Dryden 
throws a splendour around the objects which it 
destroys. He has immortalised the persons whom 
he branded with infamy and contempt; for who 
would have remembered Shadwell, if he had not 
been handed down to everlasting fame as Mac 
Flecnoe ? 

Pope is usually ranked in the School of Dryden, 
but he has few either of the faults or excellencies 
of his master. To begin with that for which he 
has been most lauded, his versification is vastly 
inferior to that of Dryden. What he has gained 
in ease and sweetness, he has lost in majesty and 
power. Dryden left our English versification at a 
point from which it has since rather retrograded 
than advanced. Pope polished and levelled it ; 
but he polished away much of it's grandeur, as well 
as of it's roughness, and levelled the rocks which 
impelled, as well as the stones which impeded, it's 
majestic current. Pope had fewer opportunities 



ENGLISH POETRY. 175 

for observation than Dryden, and perhaps improved 
those which he had, less than he did. But he had 
a finer fancy, and I am almost inclined to say, in 
opposition to the popular opinion, that he possessed 
more genius. I know of nothing so original and 
imaginative in the whole range of Dryden's Poetry 
as the " Rape of the Lock;'' no descriptions of 
Nature which can compare with those in Pope's 
" Windsor Forest;'^ and nothing so tender and 
feeling as many parts of the ** Elegy on the Death 
of an unfortunate Lady,^^ and the " Epistle from 
Eloisa to Ahelard.^' Pope's Satire, however, is 
neither so keen nor so bright as that of Dryden ; 
whom he attacks, he butchers ; whom he cuts, he 
mangles. He shews us not the lifeless carcass of 
bis victim, but the writhing and tortured limbs. 
We never feel any thing like sympathy for the 
object of Dryden's Satire. His seems to be the 
fiat of unerring justice which it would be almost 
impiety to dispute. Pope exhibits more of the 
accuser than the Judge. Petty interests, and 
personal malice, instead of a love of justice, and 
a hatred of vice, appear to be the powers which 
nerve his arm. The victim is sure to fall beneath 
his blow, but the deed, however righteous, in- 
spires us with no very affectionate feelings for his 
executioner. 



176 LECTURES ON 

Akenside's " Pleasures of Imagination*'^ is a 
very brilliant and pleasing production. Every page 
shews the refined taste and cultivated mind of the 
Author. That it can strictly be called a work of 
genius, I am not prepared to admit. The ideas 
are not generally new; and I am afraid that they 
are often even common-place. They are clothed, 
however, in elegant versification \ they are illus- 
trated with much variety, and ingenuity ; and they 
invariably tend to the advancement of good taste, 
and good feeling. Occasionally, too, Akenside 
soars beyond his ordinary height, as in his descrip- 
tion of the Soul : — 

" The high-born Soul 
Disdains to rest her Heav'n-aspiring wing 
Beneath it's native quarry. Tired of earth. 
And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft ; 
Through fields of air pursues the flying storm, 
And, yoked with whirlwinds, and the northern blast. 
Sweeps the long track of day.'' 

This passage, however, is remarkable for a con- 
fusion of metaphors of which Akenside is not very 
often guilty. The ** native quarry" of a wing would, 
I fear, very much puzzle any Painter to represent 
accurately. 

His Hymns and Odes have long since fallen 



ENGLISH POETRY. 177 

into oblivioD, and I do not feel inclined to disturb 
their rest. His Inscriptions, however, have an 
attic terseness and force, which are unequalled 
by any productions of the same class in our 
language, excepting, perhaps, by a few of our 
contemporary, Southey's. One example of 
Akenside's Inscriptions — that for a column at 
Runnymede, — will suffice :— 

" Thou, vrh.0 tlie verdant plain dost traverse here. 
While Thames among his willows from thy view 
Retires, Oh Stranger ! stay thee, and around, 
The scene contemplate well. This is the place 
Where England's ancient Barons, clad in arms, 
And stern with conquest, from the Tyrant King. 
Then render'd tame, did challenge and secure 
The Charter of thy Freedom. Pass not on 
Till thou hast bless'd their memory, and paid 
Those thanks, which God appointed the reward 
Of public virtue. And if chance, thy home 
Salute thee with a Father's honour'd name. 
Go, call thy sons, instruct them what a debt 
They owe their ancestors ; and make them swear 
To pay it, by transmitting down entire, 
The sacred rights to which themselves were born!" 

Dyer's and Armstrong's Didactic Poems are 
written upon subjects which do not seem pecu- 
liarly qualified to lend Inspiration to the Muse; 
that of the first being Sheep-shearing, and that of 

I 3 



178 LECTURES ON 

the second, Physic. They have both, however, 
been more si ccessful with those subjects than 
could hav3 been reasonably expected. Dyer is, 
nevertheless, better, and deserves to be better re- 
membered, as the Poet of '* Grongar-Hill,'' than 
of the " Fleece ,•*' and Armstrong in his '* Art 
of Preserving Health'' has done wonders with a 
somewhat repulsive theme. He pleads hard in 
favour of it's aptness for Poetical illustration, and 
reminds us that the ancients acknowledged *' one 
power of Physic, melody, and song." This, how- 
ever, is, I fear, less calculated to allure than to 
repel the readers of Poetry, and to have the same 
effect upon them, as Apollo's own enumeration of 
his accomplishments had upon Daphne whom he 
was pursuiiig : — 

" Stay, stay, gentle Maiden, why urge thus your flight, 
Tm the Great God of Song, and of Physic, and Light, 
At the dreadful word Physic the nymph fled more fast, 
At the fatal word Physic she doubled her haste." 

This Poem contains one very noble passage, which 
would do honour to any Author, however illus- 
trious : — 

" What does not Fate ? The tower that long had stood 
The crashing thunder, and the warring winds, 



ENGLISH POETRY. 179 

Shook by the slow, but sure destroyer, Time, 
Now hangs in doubtful ruin o'er it's base ; 
And flinty pyramids, and walls of brass 
Descend. The Babylonian spires are sunk ; 
Achaia, Rome, and Egypt moulder down ; 
Time shakes the stable tyranny of Thrones, 
And tottering Empires sink with their own weight : 
This huge rotundity we tread grows old, 
And all those worlds that roll around the Sun. 
The Sun himself shall die, and ancient Night 
Again involve the desolate abyss." 

Young is an Author of a very extraordinar}^ 
character, and certainly of great powers. His 
imagery is bold and original ; his sentiments ex- 
pressed with wonderful force and eloquence ; and 
his versification, although infinitely inferior to the 
exquisite music of Milton, yet has more of 
real poetical rhythm in it's composition, than that 
of most of his contemporaries. His genius, how- 
ever, is only seen to advantage amidst Charnel 
houses and sepulchres. When it is employed on 
lighter subjects, in Satirical or humorous deli- 
neations, it is unsuccessful ; it seems as if, like 
the pictures of the Camera Obscura, it could not 
be exhibited but in an apparatus of darkness. 
His Muse is a Mummy ; his Apollo a Sexton ; 
his Parnassus a Church-yard. He drinks from 
the River Styx instead of Hippocrene, and mis- 



180 LECTURES ON 

takes the pale horse in the Revelations for Pe- 
gasus. The consequence is, that as far as a very 
large portion of his volume is concerned, it may be 
very good Divinity, but it is not Poetry. 

Goldsmith I have already had occasion to men- 
tion several times in the course of these Lectures, 
as the various classes of English Poetry in which 
he has written, have come under our review. He 
now appears before us in the character of a Di- 
dactic Poet, and what can I say of him better 
than by repeating the true and eloquent enlogium 
in his Epitaph : — 

" Nulltim quod tetigit non ornavit I'^' 

The '' Traveller" and the '' Deserted Village'' 
scarcely claim any notice from me. They are in 
every one's hands ; they live in every one's me- 
mory ; they are felt in every one's heart. They 
are daily the delight of millions. The Critic and 
the Commentator are never asked their opinion 
upon their merits. '* Song," says Campbell, '* is but 
the Eloquence of Truth," and of this eloquence 
are the writings of Goldsmith made up. Elo- 
quence that will be listened to ; Truth that it is 
impossible to doubt. 
. Thomson is the first of our Descriptive Poets •, 



ENGLISH POETRY. ISl 

1 had almost said, the first in the world. He is 
one of the best Poets, and the worst versifiers, 
that ever existed. To begin with the least pleasing- 
part of our subject, his versification, it is arti- 
ficial and elaborate ; timid and pompous ; deserting 
simplicity, without attaining dignity. It scorns 
the earth, without being able to soar into the air. 
In the best passages of his Poetry, the power and 
splendour of his thoughts burst through the clouds 
in which his versification shrouds them ; and, like 
the Sun, impart a portion of their own lightness 
to that which would obscure them. Strange, that 
he who had such an eye for Nature, and had a 
mind teeming with so many simple and beautiful 
images, should choose language so artificial, in 
which to describe the one, and express the others. 
Thomson, when he wrote his " Castle of Indo- 
lence," could describe as naturally as he felt. The 
fact seems to be, that the last mentioned Poem 
was a work of amusement, and the *' Seasons' a 
work of labour. Thomson's ideas spring up so 
naturally and unforced, that he seems to think 
himself bound to clothe them in a cumbrous and 
elaborate versification, before he ventures to ex- 
hibit them to the world. He could not believe 
that in their naked simplicity and beauty they 
were fit for the public gaze. His versification. 



182 LECTURES ON 

however, is but the husk and stalk ; the fruit 
which grows up with them is of a delicious taste 
and flavour. Thomson is the genuine child of 
Nature. He seems equally at home in the sun- 
shine, and in the storm; in the smiling valHes of 
Arcadia, and in the icy wastes of Nova Zembla ; 
amidst the busy hum of mankind, and the so- 
litude and silence of deserts. The following lines 
present as perfect and well-defined a picture to the 
eye, as ever was embodied on the canvas : — 

" Home from his morning task the swain retreats. 
His flock before him stepping to the fold, 
While the full udder'd mother lows around 
The cheerful cottage, then expecting food ; 
The food of innocence and health. The daw, 
The rook, and magpie, to the grey-grown oaks. 
That the calm Village in their verdant arms. 
Sheltering, embrace, direct their lazy flight ; 
Where on the mingling boughs they sit embower'd, 
All the hot Noon, till cooler hours arise. 
Faint underneath the household fowls convene ; 
And in a corner of the buzzing shade, 
The house-dog, with the vacant greyhound, lies 
Outstretch'd and sleepy." 

Here the versification is less stilted than that of 
Thomson generally is ; but even here it is loaded 
with expletives ; such as the ** mingling boughs," 
the *' household fowls," the ** vacant greyhound," 



ENGLISH POETRY. 183 

and the " grey-grown oaks." Thomson's epithets 
are laboured, and encumber, instead of assisting 
his descriptions. Shakspeare's, on the contrary, 
are artless, and seem scarcely sought for ; but every 
word is a picture. Instance his description of the 
martlet, building his nest outside of Macbetlis 
castle : — 

" This guest of Summer, 
The temple-haunting Martlet, doth approve. 
By his loved mansionry, that the Heaven's breath 
Smells wooingly here." 

Or his description of the infant sons of Edward 
the Fourth sleeping in the Tower : — 

" Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, 
That in their Summer beauty kiss'd each other." 

Again, the following description, in the '' Sea- 
sons" of that period of the year when the Winter 
and the Spring are contending for the mastery, is 
perfectly true and natural : — 

" As yet the trembling Year is unconfirm'd, 
And Winter oft' at eve resumes the breeze ; 
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets 
Deform the day delightless ; so that scarce 
The bittern knows his time, with bill ingulph'd 



184 LECTURES ON 

To shake the sounding marsh, or from the shore 
The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath, 
And sing their wild notes to the listening waste." 



But how are the beauty and fidelity of the pic- 
ture deformed by such harsh inversions and tumid 
epithets as " day delightless," and '* bill in- 
gulphed." 

Cowper has not Thomson's genius, but he has 
much more taste. His range is neither so wide, 
nor so lofty, but, as far it extends, it is peculiarly 
his own. He cannot paint the Plague at Cartha- 
gena, or the Snow-storm, or the Earthquake, as 
Thomson has done ; but place him by the banks of 
the Ouse, or see him taking his ** Winter walk 
at Noon," or accompany him in his rambles through 
his Flower garden, and where is the Author who 
can compare with him for a moment ? The pic- 
tures of domestic life which he has painted are 
inimitable. It is hard to say whether his sketches 
of external nature, or of indoor life, are the best. 
Cowper does not attempt the same variety of scene 
as Thomson ; but in what he does attempt, he al- 
ways succeeds. The grander features of Nature 
are beyond his grasp ; mountains and cataracts, 
frowning rocks, and wide-spreading seas, are not 
subjects for his pencil : but the meadow and the 



ENGLISH POETRY. 185 

hay-field, the gurgling rill, and the flower-crowned 
porch, he can place before our eyes with astonishing 
verisimilitude. Sometimes too he takes a flight 
beyond his ordinary reach ; and his personification 
of Winter is powerful, and even sublime :— 

" Oh Winter ! ruler of the inverted year ! 
Thy scatter'd hair, with sleet-like ashes fill'd, 
Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheek 
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows 
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds, 
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 
But urged by storms along it's slippery way. 

Cowper's minor Poems are full of beauties ; 
and of beauties of the most versatile nature. For 
pathos and feeling, his lines " On his Mother^ s 
Picture'^ are positively unrivalled. His *' Review 
of Schools " and his piece entitled ** Conversation,'^ 
display an acute observation of men and manners, 
and are replete with the keenest, but at the same 
time, the most polished Satire ; while his ** John 
Gilpin" is a masterpiece of quiet and unforced, 
but, at the same time, strong and racy humour. 

His versification, like Thomson's, is not his best 
quality ; but it's faults are of a totally opposite 
character. If Thomson fails from too much efibrt. 



186 LECTURES ON 

Cowper fails from too little. If one is bombastic 
and turgid, the other is tame and prosaic. English 
Narrative blank verse is an Instrument which few 
know how to touch. It is like wielding tbe bow 
of Ulysses. Milton, and Milton only, could draw 
from it all the ravishing harmony which it con- 
tained. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 187 



LECTURE THE SIXTH. 



LYRICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS POETRY. 

Ancient Minstrels, Troubadours, and Ballad-Writers: — Abun- 
dance and Beauty of the old English Lyi-ical Poems: — 
Sir Thomas Wyatt : — Beaumont and Fletcher : — Martin 
Llewellyn: — Sir AY alter Raleigh: — George Herbert:— 
Translations of the Psalms : — Modern Ballad -Writers : — 
Modern Odes : — Dryden, Pope, Collins, Gray, Mason, 
and the Wartons : — Conclusion. 

We have already taken a brief review of English 
Narrative, Epic, Dramatic, Descriptive, Didactic, 
Pastoral, and Satirical Poetry. The subject of 
these Lectures vre shall, therefore, now bring to a 
close by directing our enquiries to English Lyrical 
and Miscellaneous Poetry. 

The value of a Song is a Proverbial saying to 
express something utterly worthless; and yet it 
is scarcely too much to assert, that the characters 
of Nations have been moulded and fixed by 
their Songs and Ballads ; which have not unfre- 
quently been found to be instruments of incalcu- 



188 LECTURES ON 

lable power. ** Give me," said a great Statesman, 
** the making of the National Ballads, and I care 
not who makes the Laws." History presents us 
with many proofs of the truth and wisdom of this 
remark. A Minstrel who accompanied William 
the Conqueror to the Invasion of England, by 
rushing into the enemy's ranks, chaunting the Song 
of Rollo, led on his countrymen to the Victory of 
Hastings; the Songs of the Welsh Bards inspired 
such a spirit of resistance to the authority of the 
English, that Edward the First caused the whole 
fraternity to be exterminated ; which Hume has 
justly styled a barbarous, but not absurd policy ; the 
air of the ''Ranz des VacJies" has been forbidden to 
be played in the bands of the Swiss Regiments on 
foreign service, because it brought back the scenes 
of home to their recollections, and inspired them 
with a resistless wish to return to their native 
country ; and Lord Wharton's song of " Lillebuhro,'' 
— immortal as the favourite of Uncle Toby, — is sup- 
posed to have had no slight influence in promoting 
our English Revolution. To cite instances of a 
more modern date, the '* Marsellois Hymn^' shook 
the Bourbons from their throne ; and Dibdin's 
unrivalled Naval Songs were instrumental in 
<]uelliug the Mutiny at the Nore. Songs and 
Ballads, too, give us a more certain and faithful 



ENGLISH POETRY. 189 

picture of the state of manners and society at 
the periods in which they were written, than do 
the more bulky and ambitious works of the histo- 
rians and chroniclers : as " a straw thrown up into 
the air will shew which way the wind blows," while 
a stone will return to the Earth, without giving us 
any such intelligence. 

Lyrical Poetry is the Parent of all others. 
Before men learned to construct their verses into 
artificial and elaborate narratives, or to give them 
a Dramatic form, they were accustomed to ex- 
press any ardent emotion, such as Affection, Ex- 
ultation, or Devotion, by short metrical composi- 
tions, which were usually sung, and accompanied 
by some musical instrument. The praises of their 
Gods, the achievements of their warriors, and 
the beauty of their mistresses, are the favourite 
topics of the Poets in the earliest and rudest 
stages of society. Hence arose a class of men, 
whose peculiar province it was to compose and 
sing verses upon such subjects ; men who united 
the characters of Poet and Minstrel ; who were 
treated with extraordinary respect and reverence, 
and who could frequently number in their ranks 
persons of high station, and great power. 

The Bards of Druidical time form the earliest 
class of this character of whom we have any record 



190 LECTURES ON 

in our Island : these have been succeeded by the 
Saxon Gleemen and Minstrels; the Proveugal 
Troubadours, and finally, by Poets of a more 
lofty and enduring reputation. 

The Troubadours are the fathers of modern 
Literature. The Provencal language in which 
they wrote, was the general language of civilised 
Europe ; or, at least, of the educated classes of 
society. At the period at which they flourished, 
it was very generally spoken in France, Italy, the 
South of Germany, Flanders, and England. The 
Poets of those days, however, bore very little re- 
semblance to those secluded and sedentary persons 
who now rule the world of Literature. They were 
Warriors and Knights, Earls and Barons, Princes 
and Kings ; although persons of the lowest stations 
in society were numbered amongst them, and could 
claim all the honours and privileges which apper- 
tained to the character of the Minstrel ; if they 
were but accomplished in what was called, la gaie 
Science : but these were also active and perambu- 
latory persons, wandering from City to City, and 
from Castle to Castle, singing of Love, and War, 
and Glory. Many of their compositions teem 
with the most beautiful and original imagery, and 
are full of expressions of that high sense of honour, 
courtesy, and devotion to the fair sex, which cha- 



ENGLISH POETRY. 191 

racterised the ages of Chivalry. A few specimens 
of their Poetry, as far as a literal Prose version 
can be called a specimen, vrill not be irrelevant 
to the subject immediately before us. Geoffrey 
Rudel, whose life was as romantic as that of any 
Romance which was ever invented, thus unburthens 
the feelings of his heart: — " All Nature sets me 
an example of elegance and love. The trees 
when renewing their leaves, and their fruits, invite 
me to adorn myself in my gayest apparel. When 
I behold the Nightingale caressing his faithful 
mate, who returns his tenderness in every look, 
and who so delightfully warble their joys in unison, 
I feel my soul penetrated with deliglit; I feel my 
heart melt with tender love. Happy birds! you 
are still at liberty to express what you feel, while 
I languish in silence. The Shepherds amuse them- 
selves with their pipes, and Children with their 
little labours. I alone rejoice not, for distant is 
the object of my love. Day and night, a thousand 
tender thoughts transport me to the blest mansions. 
When, whisper I, my Soul's delight ! when shall 
I meet you there?" 

Folquet de Marseilles, who was afterwards, 
Bishop of Thoulouse, in one of his Poems, also 
makes use of a very striking and original simile : — 



192 LECTURES ON 

*' I wish only to express my feelings, but to do 
so would be an unpardonable boldness. How can 
my heart contain so vast a love ! It is like a great 
tower reflected from a small mirror!" 

Bertrand le Bonn, who had been defeated and 
made prisoner by our heroic Monarch Coeur-de- 
Lion, then Count of Poitou, who was himself a 
distinguished Poet, thus addresses his conqueror. 
" If Count Richard will vouchsafe me his grace, 
I will devote myself to his service, and my attach- 
ment to him shall be as pure as the finest silver. His 
high dignity, should cause him to resemble the Sea, 
which seems to retain all she receives within her 
bosom, but casts it back on the shore. It befits 
so great a Baron to restore what he has taken, 
from a vassal who humbles himself before him." 

But it is doing the Troubadour Poets manifest 
injustice to pretend to give any idea of their merits 
by a literal Prose version. I will therefore venture 
to attempt a metrical translation of two short ex- 
tracts, which struck me as possessing peculiar 
beauty. The first is from Geoffrey Rudel : — 

" Once on my lip, my bliss to seal, 
Thine own a kiss imprest ; 
And ever since that time I feel 
Love's pangs within my breast. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 193 

Give me again that kiss so dear, 
Which my heart's peace betray'd ; 

That kiss which like Achilles' spear, 
Can heal the wound it made." 

The other is from Folquet de Marseilles ; and I 
should premise thai Love and Mercy were suppli- 
cated as Divinities among the Troubadours. 

*' Love ! thou hast done me wrong to wage 

Thy war within my heart ; 
Not bringing Mercy to assuage 

The rankling of thy dart. 
Where Mercy is not, Love is found 

A tyrant haught and proud ; 
Love, let thy knee salute the ground, 

At Mercy's footstool bow'd. 

Surely the greatest of the great, 

The best among the good, 
May bid those powers together mate, 

Oh Lady ! calm their feud. 
That thou can'st blend in union meek. 

Things more opposed than they, 
The white and red upon thy cheek, 

In Love's own language say." 

By degrees, however, the Provencal dechned 
into a dead language ; the Poets of Europe made use 
of the tongues of their own respective countries; 
and Lyrical and Narrative Poetry became closely 



194 LECTURES ON 

connected. The old English Metrical Romances 
were composed with a view to a Musical accom- 
paniment ; and the old English Ballads, for the 
most part, contain some narration formed of two 
or three striking incidents. In the number and 
beauty of it's ancient Lyrical reliques, this nation 
is said to be richer than all the rest of Europe 
combined. The fine old Ballads of *' Chevy Chace' 
and " Sir Cauline and King Estmere,'' abound 
with the most exquisite and original imagery, and 
with touches of deep and genuine feeling. Of 
the first, Sir Philip Sidney, no incompetent judge, 
has said, '* I never heard the old song of Percie 
and Douglas, that I have found not my heart 
moved more than with a trumpet ; and yet it is sung 
but by some blind crowder, with no rougher voice 
than rude style; which being so evil apparelled, 
in the dust and cobweb of that uncivil age, what 
would it work trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence 
of Pindar?" " Old Robin Gray" also deserves 
our notice, if it were only on account of these two 
lines : — 

" My Father argued sair, though my Mither didna speak, 
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break." 

There is also in " Lady Ann BothwelVs Lament,'' 



ENGLISH POETRY. 195 

a touch of unaffected nature and pathos of the 
same kmd : — 

" Lie still, my darling ! sleep awhile, 
And when thou wakest, sweetly smile; 
But smile not as thy Father did, 
To cozen maids ; — nay, God forbid !" 

The early part of the reign of Henry the Eighth 
was rich in Lyrical Poetry ; and indeed, wore an 
aspect of great promise to the cause of Literature 
and the Arts. I am afraid that I shall be venturing 
a very unpopular opinion, when I say, that I be- 
lieve these propitious appearances were owing to 
the influence of Cardinal Wolsey; for we find the 
character of the King, and of the nation, mate- 
rially altered after that distinguished Minister 
w^as removed from the Royal Councils. Hen- 
ry, who during Wolsey's administration held the 
balance of Europe, became comparatively power- 
less and insignificant ; the love of Poetry and the 
Arts was exchanged for controversial subtleties, 
and for the more conclusive, if less logical argu- 
ments, of the axe, the faggot, and the gibbet ; 
and thus the budding Spring time of English Lite- 
rature, which had produced such Poets as Surrey, 
Wyatt, and Vaux, was nipped untimely by the 
chilhng breath of tyranny. One extract from the 

K 2 



196 LECTURES ON 

productions of this period is all that I can find 
room for ; and this I shall give not so much on ac- 
count of any claims to originality, or genius, which 
it evinces, as for the purpose of shewing the 
strength and sweetness, which the Authors, even 
of that early age, infused into their versification. 
It is by Sir Thomas Wyatt, and is entitled ** An 
earnest Suit to his Mistress not to forsake 
him:'' — 



" And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
Say nay, say nay, for shame : 
To save thee from the blame 
Of all my grief and grame, 

And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
Say nay, say nay. 

And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
That has loved thee so long. 
In wealth and woe among ; 
And is thy heart so strong, 

As for to leave me thus ? 
Say nay, say nay. 

And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
That hath given thee my heart, 
Never for to depart. 
Neither for pain or smart : 

And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
Say nay, say nay. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 197 

And wilt thou leave me thus? 
And have no more pity 
Of him that loveth thee ; 
Alas ! thy cnieltj- ! 

And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
Say nay, say nay," 

The age of Queen Elizabeth, however, to which, 
ahnost whatever class of Poetry we are discussing-, 
we must revert as the period in which it arrived at 
it's greatest perfection, is peculiarly rich in Lyrical 
Poems. From the writings of the early Dra- 
matists alone, we may extract gems *' of purest 
ray serene/' whose brightness will shame the most 
ambitious efforts of subsequent periods. I have 
already given some extracts from Ben Jonson ; 
who is, perhaps, on the whole, the finest Lyrical 
Poet in our language. Shakspeare, Beaumont 
and Fletcher, Lylye, and Heywood, also stand out 
from among the ranks of the Dramatists, as ele- 
gant and accomplished Lyrists ; and the following 
Song, from Beaumont and Fletcher, is evidently 
the foundation on which Milton built that noble 
Poetical structure, his '* II Penseroso ;" — 



Hence ! all you vain delights, 
As short as are the nights, 



198 LECTURES ON 

In which you spend your folly ; 
There's nought in this life sweet, 
If men were wise to see't, 

But only Melancholy. 

Oh ! sweetest Melancholy ! 

Welcome folded arms, and fixed eyes, 

A sigh that piercing, mortifies ; 

A look that fasten'd to the ground, 

A tongue chain'd up, without a sound ; 

Fountain-heads, and pathless groves, 

Places which pale Passion loves ; 

Moonlight walks, where all the fowls 

Are warmly housed, save bats and owls ; 

A Midnight bell, a parting groan, 

These are the sounds we feed upon : 
Then stretch our limbs in a still gloomy valley, 
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely Melancholy." 

The number and beauty of the Lyrical Poems 
produced in the age of Queen Elizabeth, are such 
that I cannot attempt to give any adequate notion 
of them by extracts. Their grand distinguishing 
features are originality of thought, and elegance 
of versification. Donne, Sydney, Raleigh, Ca- 
rew, Herrick, Crashaw, Suckling, Waller, and 
others, form an unrivalled School of Lyrical Poetry, 
which existed in this country from the days of 
Elizabeth to those of Charles : and it is perfectly 
unaccountable, that, possessing so many gems of 



ENGLISH POETRY. 199 

the purest Poetry, the public taste should afterwards 
have sunk into sudi a state of utter debasement, 
as to be gratified by the sickening common- 
places of Lansdowne, Walsh, and Halifax ; — that it 
should " on that fair mountain leave to feed, to 
batten on this moor." I cannot, however, dismiss 
this part of our subject, without giving an extract 
or two, which, in pursuance of my plan, shall be 
taken from such Authors as are least generally 
known. The first is by Martin Llewellyn : — 

*' I felt my heart, and found a flame, 
That for relief and shelter came ; 
I entertain'd the treacherous guest, 
And gave it welcome in my breast : 
Poor Celia ! whither wilt thou go. 
To cool in streams, or freeze in snow ? 
Or gentle Zephyrus entreat, 
To chill thy flames, and fan thy heat ? 
Perhaps a taper's fading beams 
May die in air, or quench in streams ; 
But Love is an immortal fire, 
Nor can in air, or ice, expire ; 
Nor will that Phoenix be supprest. 
But with the ruin of it's nest/' 



My second quotation is from the writings of 
one, whose achievements and misfortunes have 
made him sufficiently renowned ; but whose Literary 



200 LECTURES ON 

productions are comparatively unknown. I allude 
to that Soldier, that Sailor, that Statesman, that 
Patriot^ that Poet, that Hero, Sir Walter Raleigh! 

« THE SILENT LOVER. 

Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams, 
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb ; 

So, when affection yields discourse, it seems 
The bottom is but shallow whence they come ; 

They that are rich in words must needs discover 

They are but poor in that which makes a lover. 

Wrong not, sweet Mistress of my heart I 

The merit of true passion, 
With thinking that he feels no smart. 

That sues for no compassion. 

Since, if my plaints were not t' approve 

The conquest of thy beauty ; 
It comes not from defect of love, 

But fear t' exceed my duty. 

For knowing that I sue to serve 

A Saint of such perfection. 
As all desire, but none deserve 

A place in her affection ; 

I rather choose to want relief, 

Than venture the revealing ; 
Where glory recommends the grief,. 

Despair disdains the healing. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 20L 

Silence in love betrays more woe 
Than words, though ne'er so witty : 

A beggar that is dumb you know, 
May challenge double pity. 

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart ! 

My love for secret passion ; 
He smarteth most who hides his smart, 

And sues for no compassion." 

The excitement and partizansliip produced by the 
progress of the Reformation in the reign of Queen 
Elizabeth, gave a religious tinge to many of the 
Lyrical writings of that period. Crashaw, who 
translated Marino's " Sospetto d' Herode,'' is a 
Lyric Poet of great sweetness and power ; but his 
writings were not very popular, on account of the 
rehgious tenets which lie professed being Homan 
Catholic; and of his Poems being very deeply 
imbued with them. The unfortunate Robert 
Southwell, the Jesuit, was also doomed, not only 
to find his Poetry neglected, but to lay down his 
life on account of his Creed ; and this too, during 
the domination of that boasted advocate of libe- 
rality and toleration^ Queen Ehzabeth. His 
Works, both Prose and Poetry, are full of deep 
and original thoughts, which are, in general, charm- 
ingly expressed, George Herbert, brother of the 

K 3 



202 LECTURES ON 

celebrated Edward, Lord Herbert, of Cherbury, 
was once an Author of great reputation as a devo- 
tional Lyrist; but his beauties of thought and 
diction are so overloaded with far-fetched conceits, 
and quaintnesses ; low, and vulgar, and even inde- 
licate imagery; and a pertinacious appropriation 
of Scripture language and figure, in situations 
where they make a most unseemly exhibition, that 
there is now very little probability of his ever re- 
gaining the popularity which he has lost. That 
there was much, however, of the real Poetical 
temperament in the composition of his mind, the 
following lines^ although not free from his cha- 
racteristic blemishes, will abundantly prove : — 

" Sweet Day! so cool, so calm, so bright. 
The bridal of the Earth and sky ; 
Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night, 
For thou must die ! 

Sweet Rose ! whose hue, angry and brave, 

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye ; 
Thy root is ever in it's grave. 
And thou must die ! 

Sweet Spring ! full of sweet days and roses, 

A box, where sweets compacted lie ; 
My Music shews you have your closes, 
And all must die ! 



ENGLISH POETRY. 203 

Only a sweet and virtuous Soul, 

Like seasoned timber never gives. 
But when the whole world turns to coal 
Then chiefly lives." 

Francis Quarles is an Author of the same stamp ; 
with a fine genius, but the vilest taste in the world. 
His writings are full of powerful effort, ill directed. 
His Poetry, in all it's faults and merits, is well 
illustrated by his engravings. There is much of 
what Artists call good intention in both, but never 
was good intention so marred in the execution. 
His Poetry is not more like Milton's, than his 
pictures are like Raffaelle's ; yet both are full of 
originality and power : the mere chippings and 
parings of his genius, combined with a little taste 
and judgment; would have been sufficient to have 
formed either an Artist^ or a Poet, of no ordinary 
rank. 

The Odes and Choruses of Milton are perhaps 
the most perfect Lyrics in our language. The 
** Hymn on the Nativity,''^ beginning, *' It was 
the Winter wild ;" the lines '* On a solemn Mu- 
sic" — '* Blest pair of Syrens ! pledges of Hea- 
ven's joy !" and the Choruses of '' 'Sampson Ago- 
nistes" are altogether matchless. Like all the 
writings of Milton, they are remarkable for their 
union of the sublimity and daring of the Greek 



204 LECTURES ON 

Poets, with the holy fervour and sanctity of the 
Scriptural writers. He is, as it were, Isaiah and 
Pindar combined. He soars on the pinions of the 
Theban Eagle, yet his lips seem touched with 
the same coal of fire from the Altar, as were 
those of the inspired Prophet of Israel. 

Of all Authors, ancient or modern, who 
have been subjected to the inflictions of Transla- 
tors, certainly the Royal Psalmist, David, has 
been treated with the greatest indignity; for, in 
no language in Europe, has justice been done to 
him. He has been traduced into French, over- 
turned into Dutch, and done into English, with 
equal beauty and felicity. In our own country, 
the Psalms, like every thing else appertaining to 
the Church, seem to be considered Parish property, 
and to be under the control of a Select Vestry ; 
every vestige of genius, or Poetry, in them, is 
therefore most carefully picked out, lest they should 
interfere with the popularity of the Verses of that 
most ancient and respectable parochial officer, 
the bellman! The words which are feloniously 
attributed to the *' sweet singer of Israel," might, 
with greater probability, be considered the author- 
ship of the Parish Clerk, who drawls them out ; or of 
the Charity Children, who lend their most ** sweet 
voices" to grace them with appropriate melody. 



ENGLISH POETRY. 205 

It is, certainly, most extraordinary, tiiat a work 
which is worthy of the highest Poetical powers of 
any age, or of any coiHStry, should hitherto have 
been generally abandoned to the ignorant, the in- 
capable, and the presumptuous. But the truth is, 
that so long as the purposes of Public worship are 
exclusively kept in view, and the Translator is 
confined to the drawling long, and short Metres, 
the straight waistcoats of Verse, which are now 
used, it will be impossible to infuse into any 
English version, the power and feeling, the spirit 
and energy, of the originals. It is obvious that 
many of these Psalms are not fitted for public use ; 
and that the variety of their subjects, requires an 
equal variety of Metre. Some of them breathe 
all the ardour of triumph ; some, all the dejection 
of humility; some are sweet and gentle Pastorals; 
others are grand and melancholy Songs, which are 
fit to be warbled only amidst the scenes which they 
describe ; in solitude, and captivity, amidst danger 
and distress ; by the rivers of Babylon, and among 
the tents of Kedar. 

One Translator has had the conscience to render 
a part of that fine Lyric, the 137th Psalm, which 
runs thus, '* If I forget thee. Oh Jerusalem ! may 
my right hand forget her cunning ; if I do not re- 



206 LECTURES ON 

member thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of 
my mouth ! " in the following manner : — 

V 

" If I forget thee ever. 
Then let me prosper never. 
But let it cause 
My tongue and jaws 
To cling and cleave together!" 

William Slatyer published, in 1642, the '* Songs 
of Sion, or certain Psalms of David, set to strange 
Tunes, and rendered into a strange Tongue.''^ Of 
the Tunes, I can say nothing ; but the tongue is 
strange enough. For instance, a part of the 6th 
and 7th Verses of the 52d Psalm,- — " The righteous 
also shall see^ and fear, and shall laugh at him : 
Lo ! this is the man that made not God his 
strength ; but trusted in the abundance of his 
riches ! " is thus versified : — 

** The righteous shall his sorrow scan, 
And laugh at him, and say, behold ! 
What has become of this here man, 
That on his riches was so bold V* 

Archbishop Parker, in the year 1564, printed a 
Version of the entire book of Psalms, for private 
circulation, "which was never pubhshed ; but a copy 



ENGLISH POETRY. 207 

^hich has fallen into my bands, does not say much 
for the Most Reverend Prelate's Poetical talents. 
His version of the 1st verse of the 125th Psalm 
will suffice as a specimen of the entire Volume. 
The Prose translation is as follows: — ** They that 
trust in the Lord shall be as Mount Zion, which 
cannot be removed, but abideth for ever:" which 
the Archbishop versifies thus :— 

" Who sticketh to God in stable trust, 
As Sion mount lie stands full just ; 
Which moveth no whit, nor yet can reel, 
But standeth for ever, as stiff as steel." 

Other parts of the Scriptures have scarcely 
suffered less at the hands of versifiers than the 
Psalms ; for, in the reign of Edward the Sixth, Dr, 
Christopher Tye turned the whole '* Acts of the 
Apostles" into rhyme. His Metre is something 
like that of Mr. Moore's Song of " Fly from the 
world, Oh Bessy, to me !" and the Reverend 
Doctor begins his task thus : — 

" In the former Epistle to thee, 
Dear friend Theophilus, 
I have vrritten the veritie 

Of the Lord Christ Jesus [" 



208 LECTURES ON 

Such, as Lord Byron truly said, are some of the 
Authors, who, — 

" Break into Verse the Gospel of St. Luke, 
Or boldly pilfer from the Pentateuch ; 
And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms, 
Pervert the Prophets, and purloin the Psalms \" 

One of the earliest complete versions of the 
Psalms, and, perhaps, with all it's faults, — for, 
alas ! we have but a choice of evils, — one of the 
best, is that of Sternhold and Hopkins. It is by 
far the most faithful version ; and, although in the 
effort to be scrupulously literal, the Authors have 
so often fallen into absurdity, and bathos, yet 
there are a few Psalms which are rendered into 
English with real poetical beauty, and feeling. 
Those which have the signature N affixed to them, 
are by far the best. They are the production of 
Thomas Norton, who was, jointly with Lord Buck- 
hurst, Author of the old Play of '' Gor-buduc,'' 
which we have had occasion to mention several 
times in the course of these Lectures, as the first 
regular English Tragedy. The version of Tate 
and Brady is really beneath our notice. All the 
absurdities of Sternhold and his coadjutors, are 
preferable to this dull, sleepy, prosaic transmuta- 
tion of some of the most magnificent Poems in the 



ENGLISH POETRY. 209 

world. That of Dr. Watts, however respectable, 
is not, and does not affect to be, a translation. It 
is a commentary, or an exposition of the Author's 
own views and fancies ; and, however acceptable 
to those who coincide in his opinions, is worse 
than nothing, as a faithful and correct version of 
the Psalms. Perhaps, after all, the genius of the 
two languages, Hebrew and English, is so adverse, 
that it is not likely that any Metrical imitation 
can give an adequate idea of the original. The 
fine Prose version of the Translators of the Bible, 
is certainly infinitely more Poetical than any at- 
tempt which has yet been made at Versification. 

Lyrical Poetry, like almost all other Poetry, 
except the Comic Drama, seems to have made a 
dead stop at the Restoration. The Love Songs, 
Pastoral Songs, Sentimental Songs, Loyal Songs, 
and Devotional Songs, which were then produced, 
now call upon us for no other expression of our 
sentiments and opinions, but that of peace be with 
their ashes! The stream from which those Poets 
drank was Lethe, and not Helicon ; a wreath of 
poppy and nightshade, instead of laurel and 
bays, has now settled quietly on their brows; 
and the Critical resurrectionist who would raise 
them from the oblivious grave in which they are 
so peacefully inurned, would deserve a sentence 



210 LECTURES ON 

of outlawry in all the Courts of Parnassus. Dry- 
den is a solitary, but a magnificent, exception. 
His two splendid Odes on St. Cecilia's Day will 
last as long as the language in which they are 
written. The Second, entitled *' Alexander's 
Feast/' is unquestionably the finest Ode in our 
language. Pope's on the same subject sinks infi- 
nitely in the camparison. It is certainly not with- 
out merit ; but Pope's pinions, strong and vigorous 
as they were, were not peculiarly adapted for 
I*indaric flights. Rowe, who has shewn his taste, 
if not his honesty, in directing his attention to our 
old English writers, has thus truly and ener- 
getically characterised the Authors of the ancient 
Ballads : — 

" Those venerable ancient Song enditers, 

Soar'd many a pitch beyond our modern writers ; 
With rough, majestic strength they touch'd the heart, 
And Truth and Nature made amends for Art." 

His own Poems are very pleasing imitations of 
the ancient Lyrists, and may be said to have given 
rise to the School of Modern Ballad Writers ; in 
which may be numbered Tickell, — whose fine and 
feeling '' Elegy on the death of Addison/^ is very 
superior to the general tone of English Poetry at 
that period ;— Mallet, Mickle, Glover,— of whose 



ENGLISH POETRY. 211 

Ballad of " Hosier's Ghost,'' Sheridan declared 
he would rather be the Author than of the Annals 
of Tacitus, — Gay, Percy, and Goldsmith. From 
such well known works as " Colin and Lucy,'' 
" William and Margaret," '' Edwin and Emma," 
" Black-Eyed Susan," the " Friar of Orders 
Grey," and ^' Ediuin and Angelina," it would be idle 
for me to adduce any extracts. They form a very 
agreeable variety in our Literatare, and combine 
much of the native beauty and feeling of the an- 
cient Ballad, with the more polished versification 
of modern times. 

I cannot, however, close this part of my sub- 
ject without observing that there are several 
highly gifted Ballad writers now living ; especially 
Mr. Coleridge, whose ^' Genevieve" and the " An- 
cient Mariner,^ are two of the most magnificent 
productions in our language. 

Gray for a long time held undivided empire in 
the world of English Lyrical Poetry. Mason said 
of him : — 

" No more the Grecian Muse unrivall'd reigns, 
To Britain let the Nations homage pay ; 
She boasts a Homer's fire in Milton's strains, 
A Pindar's rapture in the Lyre of Gray !" 

and the public eagerly echoed the sentiment. 



212 LECTURES ON 

Milton still continues in undisputed possession of 
the Epic Supremacy, but the Lyrical crown of 
Gray was swept away at one fell swoop by the 
ruthless arm of Dr. Johnson. That the Doctor's 
celebrated critique was unduly severe, must be 
admitted ; but the stern censor had truth on his 
side, nevertheless. There is more of Art than 
Nature in Gray ; more of recollection than in- 
vention ; more of acquirement than genius. If I 
may use a colloquial illustration, I should say, 
that the marks of the tools are too evident on all 
that he does. I do not object to effort and la- 
bour being exercised on that which is intended 
for the public eye ; but the highest effort, and the 
most successful labour, are those which produce 
the effects without exhibiting the means. Who 
can doubt but that the works of Milton were the 
result of long, and painful, and elaborate la- 
bour ; but the only evidence of that labour is the 
perfection to which they are wrought. In Milton 
we see the Poet; in Gray, the Verse constructor. 
In Milton we see the stately edifice reared ; in 
Gray, the materials brought together for it*s erec- 
tion. One shews us the palette, and the canvas, 
and the brush ; the other shews us the Picture ; 
the production of the Master mind, without 
whose informing genius, the palette, and the can- 



ENGLISH POETRY. 213 

vas, and the brush, are but idle and worthless 
toys. 

Collins is, next to Jonson, Milton, and Dryden, 
the finest Lyrical Poet which England has pro- 
duced. Elegance, delicacy, refinement, pathos, 
sublimity, all are his. Had health of body, and 
sanity of mind been preserved to him, I know 
scarcely any English Poet by whom he would have 
been surpassed. But, as an Author, whom I 
have not yet named in these Lectures, but for 
whom, with all his faults, I take this opportunity 
of testifying my admiration, Churchill, has said, — 

" By curious Art the brain too finely wrought, 
Preys on itself, and is destroy'd by thought.'* 

Such was the fate of Collins ; the most accom- 
plished Scholar, and the most original Poet of his 
age. His misfortunes, however, survived him ; 
for his Epitaph was written by Hayley, who bore 
about as much resemblance to him, ** as I to 
Hercules." 

Mason, and the Wartons, are the latest Lyrical 
Poets, whom it will be consistent with my plan to 
mention. The first was certainly a man of con- 
siderable talent. His ^' Elfrida'* and " Carac- 
tacuSf^ notwithstanding the trammels in which he 



214 LECTURES ON 

voluntarily chose to involve himself, shew much 
dramatic power, and the Choruses in the last, 
particularly that beginning **Hark! heard ye not 
yon footstep dread?" venture almost on the pathless 
regions of subHmity. The Wartons, particularly 
Thomas Warton, were men of cultivated minds, 
and refined taste, but to original genius they had 
no pretensions. 

And now, " my task is done, my labour is com- 
plete." For the attention which I have been for- 
tunate enough to command, I am indebted to the 
nature of the subject on which I have been speak- 
ing. The situations of the Painter and the Critic 
are singularly contrasted. In the one instance, 
the canvas derives all it's importance from the 
Artist ; in the other, the Artist derives all his 
importance from the canvas. The canvas on which 
I have been employed, has been the merits of the 
Poets of England ; of those illustrious men who, 
more than her Monarchs, her Statesmen, or her 
Warriors, — great as they confessedly have been, — 
will transmit her fame to the most distant climes, 
and the remotest generations. The works of man's 
hand often perish before that hand has mouldered 
in the dust; but the vast productions of his mind 
are immortal as that mind itself. Even now we 
see how far the genius of England has extended 



ENGLISH POETRY. 215 

beyond her territorial limits. Language is the 
type of ideas, and the medium by which they are 
expressed. Louis the Fourteenth boasted, that 
he had made French the language of Europe ; but, 
when we remember, that English is not only the 
language of these realms, and their dependencies 
in the four quarters of the world ; but also of 
another mighty Empire beyond the wide Atlantic ; 
and of the hundred realms of Hindoostan ; and 
of that insular continent, which may be called 
the fifth division of the globe ; and, moreover, 
that, for the purposes of Commerce, or of Lite- 
rature, or by means of Religious Missionaries, it 
has been, more or less, introduced into almost every 
Realm, and State, and Territory, on the face of 
the earth, we may then, indeed, venture to call it 
the language of the World ! This Language is 
that mighty engine which our Poets have subdued 
to themselves ; and on which they have stamped 
the impress of their own unrivalled genius : this is 
that flood which shall spread over the whole World ; 
and when the dynasties of the present period, and 
the " cloud capt towers, and the gorgeous pa- 
laces," and the political Institutions, and the 
customs, and modes, and manners, which now 
prevail, shall sink beneath it, like the Cities and 
Mountains of the antediluvian world ; the genius 



216 



of England, like the Ark of old, shall float proudly 
and securely on it's bosom, and survive to delight 
new eras, and form the taste and manners of 
Nations yet unborn. 



END OF THE LECTURES. 



TALES, POEMS, &c 



PIIINTED FROM THE OPvIGlN^AL MANUSCRIPTS. 



Th' Earth o' the grave hath stopt his hearing, Sir ; 
And praise and blame are now alike to him : 
Yet, though his ear be dull, and his heart cold, 
And all Fame's aspirations quench'd in death, 
Still let these reliques bear a charmed life. 
And speak, though he be silent. 

Old Play. 



THE GARTER. 

A ROMANCE OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 



Honi soit qui Mai y pense.' 



England resumed her ascendancy over Scotland 
soon after Edward the Third had commenced that 
brilliant reign which was destined to attract the 
eyes of all Europe towards him. Nature and 
Fortune seemed to have concurred in distinguishing 
this Prince from all other monarchs. He was very 
tall, but well shaped ; and of so noble and majestic 
an aspect, that his very looks commanded esteem 
and veneration. His conversation was easy, and 
always accompanied with gravity and discretion. 
He was affable and obliging, benevolent and con- 
descending ; and although the most renowned 
Prince, Warrior, and Statesman, of the age in 
which he lived, his manners and conduct were 
courteous, unaffected, and even humble. His heart, 

l2 



220 ORIGINAL 

filled with visions of glory, was as yet ignorant of 
a passion with which few men know how to combat ; 
and which is equally the source of the greater part 
of all the virtues, and vices, of humanity: young 
Edward was unacquainted with love. He only 
aspired to resume those conquests, which had es- 
caped from the feeble grasp of his unhappy Father. 
He burned with the desire of subjecting a neigh- 
bouring kingdom, the conquest of which had ever 
been a favourite project of England. Robert 
Bruce was in his grave ; and his successor, although 
he inherited his courage, did but hasten the de- 
struction of the Scottish monarchy. 

The Enghsh Monarch was served by men who 
were worthy of their master. WilHam Montacute 
had fought with distinction and success, against 
the French and Scots, and raised by the king 
to the rank of Earl of Salisbury, he desired no- 
thing but the continuance of his Sovereign's fa- 
vour ; w^hich Edward confirmed, by engaging the 
Baron de Grandison, one of his Ministers, to give 
his eldest daughter to him in marriage. 

Katharine de Grandison had not yet appeared 
at Court, but lived in seclusion and solitude at her 
Father's castle in Gloucestershire. To a tall and 
stately form, and a majestic gait, she added the 
most sylph-like grace, and lightness of figure. 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 221 

Her features were of that classical symmetry, and 
faultless beauty, which we so often see in the 
Greek statues, and sigh over as if they were only 
the dreams of the inspired. Her face was exqui- 
sitely fair ; her eyes of an intense blue ; and her 
voice surpassingly rich, powerful, and melodious. 
The accomplishments, both mental and acquired, 
with which she was endowed, were of as high an 
order as those of her person ; and to both, she 
united a sweetness and gentleness of disposition, 
which made her the idol of all who were acquainted 
with her. 

Her Father, the Lord de Grandison, was of a 
lofty and imperious character. Neither very mild, 
or, what has been in modern times called amiable, 
he had a stern and inflexible spirit of justice, and 
probity. Incapable of sycophancy, although he 
resided at Court, and adoring his Sovereign 
without being able to degrade himself to the rank 
of a flatterer, he would gladly have sacrificed his 
life for the King, but his honour was dearer to 
him even than Edward. Next to the Monarch, 
and the state, the object to which he was most at- 
tached was his daughter ; and he lost no time in ac- 
quainting Katharine with the wishes of his Master, 
who demanded her hand for the Earl of Salisbury. 
The Father did not observe the Daughter's emo- 



222 ORIGINAL 

tion, but retired, convinced that he should be 
obeyed, and that she knew no other law than her 
parent's will. He had, however, not long quitted 
the apartment before her younger sister Alice en- 
tered it, and found her bathed in tears. " Sweet 
Sister," said Alice, " what mean these tears?" 

" Alas !" returned the lady Katharine, " I am 
no longer to be mistress of myself. Thy love, and 
my Father's protection, were all I wished to form my 
happiness ; and I am now about to pass under the 
yoke of a husband, whom I have never seen, nor 
ever wish to see." 

It was in vain that Alice endeavoured to impress 
upon her Sister's mind the advantages which would 
attend her union with King Edward's favourite. 
" It is true," she replied, ** that the Earl of 
Salisbury stands high in the favour of the greatest 
Monarch in Europe. But hast thou ever seen the 
King, Alice ? Is he not worthy of the homage of 
all mankind ? Lives there any one who can so 
irresistibly command our respect, our veneration, 
our love ? I beheld him but once, at an entertain- 
ment to which my Father accompanied me : but 
one glance was sufficient ! Oh ! how happy will 
that Princess be who calls him husband !'* 

At these words the young lady paused, and 
blushed; yet notwithstanding such very unpromising 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 223 

symptoms, the day for the nuptials was immediately 
fixed; as the old Lord never dreamed of asking his 
Daughter if his own, and the King's choice were 
agreeable to her. The Abbey of Westminster was 
chosen for the celebration ; the Primate performed 
the ceremony; the King gave away the bride ; and 
Katharine, accompanied by her husband, and her 
Sister, proceeded to spend the honeymoon at the 
Earrs Castle of Wark, in Northumberland, His 
Lordship had not, however, many weeks enjoyed 
the society of his beautiful wife, before he was 
summoned to attend the Earl of Suffolk on a war- 
like expedition to Flanders ; on which occasion his 
usual good fortune for the first time forsook him. 
Both the Earls were defeated in the first battle in 
which they engaged ; and were sent prisoners to the 
Court of France, until they could be either ran- 
somed, or exchanged. 

This piece of inteUigence was communicated to 
the lady Katharine at the same time with another, 
by which she learned that King Edward had been 
solemnly betrothed to the lady Philippa of Hainault. 
The Treaty for this Marriage gave general and 
unmixed pleasure to all his subjects ; the Count 
of Hainault, the lady's Father, being one of the 
most powerful allies of England on the Continent, 



224: ORIGINAL 

who had been mainly instrumental in rescuing it 
from the tyranny of Mortimer, Earl of March, and 
the old Queen Isabella, and thus securing the 
Crown for Edward the Third. The Lord de 
Grandison, in particular, was delighted by the 
prospect of an union between the houses of Eng- 
land and Hainauit; but no sooner was this news 
communicated to the Countess of Salisbury, than 
she was overwhelmed with the most poignant 
sorrow. Whether the Earl's captivity, or the 
King's marriage, had the greatest share in causing 
it, we must leave our fair readers to determine. 

**Why, my sweet Katharine^" said Alice, "why 
do you take the Earl's captivity so much to heart? 
the Court of France must be the most agreeable 
prison in the world. There he will find every 
thing to solace him in his misfortunes, and enable 
Lim to sustain his separation from you." 

" Let him forget me ; let him cease to love me ; 
'tis no matter !" sighed the Countess. 

" You deceive me, Katharine," said Alice ; 
'* you conceal something from me ; for it is im- 
possible that the capture which has placed your 
Lord in the hands of generous and magnanimous 
foes, can be the occasion of so deep a grief as 
yours." 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 225 

*' True, true, my sweet Alice," said the Countess, 
throwing herself in her Sister's arms; ** I am the 
most wretched of women ; I love " 

" The Earl!" said Alice. 

" The King!" said Katharine; hiding her face 
in her Sister's bosom. 

** Ha !" said the latter, '' what is't I hear? I 
am your friend, your Sister, Katharine, and would 
fain administer to your peace ; but whither will 
this fatal passion lead you?" 

*' To death, sweet Alice ! to death ! or, at least, 
to a life made miserable by the consciousness of 
nursing in my heart a sentiment, to which honour 
and virtue are alike opposed. And I have a rival, 
Alice! Oh! save me, save me from myself! 
Speak to me of Salisbury, of my husband ! of his 
renown, his truth, his valour ! and I will forget 
this King, whose conquests cannot be bounded by 
France and Scotland, but must include even the 
affections of his subjects." 

The heart of Katharine was tender and suscep- 
tible, but bold and firm ; and in the society of her 
Sister, and in the active discharge of the various 
duties devolving upon her elevated rank, she en- 
deavoured to repress that fatal passion, which the 
recent intelligence had strengthened to a height, 
almost bordering lipon insanity* 

l3 



226 ORIGINAL 

In the meantime, King Edward openly declared 
war against the Scots ; who, instead of waiting 
to be attacked, resolved to become themselves 
the assailants, and, with a large army, invaded 
England ; ravaged the northern counties ; attacked 
Newcastle ; took and burned the City of Durham ; 
tmd finally, laid siege to Wark Castle, which was 
left to the defence of the Countess of Salisbury, 
Sir William Montacute, the son of her Husband's 
sister, and a very slender garrison. This heroic 
Lady, however, by her beauty and firmness, in- 
spired all with courage, and devotion to her cause ; 
though .the assault of the enemy was too fierce 
and unremitting for them to hope long to defend 
the Castle, without assistance from King Edward ; 
which Sir William Montacute volunteered to ob- 
tain. *' I know your loyalty and heartiness, as 
well as your affection for the Lady of this house," 
said the gallant Knight to the beleagured garrison ; 
" and so, out of my love for her, and for you, 
I will risque my life in endeavouring to make the 
Kirig acquainted with our situation ; when I doubt 
not to be able to bring back with me such succour 
as will effectually relieve us." 

This speech cheered both the Countess and her 
defenders; and at midnight Sir William left the 
fortress, happily unobserved by the Scots. It 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 227 

was so pitiless a storm, that he passed through 
their army without being noticed ; until about day 
break, when he met two Scotsmen, half a league 
from their camp, driving thither some oxen. 
These men Sir William attacked, and wounded 
very severely ; killed the cattle that they might not 
carry them to their army; and then said to them, 
" Go and tell your leader, that William Monta- 
cute has passed through his troops, and is gone to 
seek succour from the King of England, who is 
now at Berwick ;" which intelligence being speedily 
communicated to the King of Scotland,, he lost no 
time in raising the siege, and retreating towards 
the frontier. 

Within a very few hours, King Edward arrived 
to the relief of the garrison, and proceeded to 
pay his respects to the Countess ; who went to meet 
him at the Castle-gates, and there gave him her 
thanks for his assistance. They entered the Castle 
hand in hand ; and the King kept his eyes so con- 
tinually upon her, that the gentle dame was quite 
abashed: after which, he retired to a window, 
where he fell into a profound reverie ; and, as 
Froi&sart tells us, upon the Countess enquiring the 
subject of his thoughts, and whether it was public 
business on which he mused, the King replied, 
** Other affairs, Lady, touch my heart more nearly; 



228 ORIGINAL 

for in truth, your perfections have so surprised and 
affected me, that my happiness depends on my 
meeting from you a return to that love with which 
my bosom burns, and which no refusal can ex- 
tinguish." 

" Sire," replied the Countess, " do not amuse 
yourself by laughing at me ; for T cannot believe, 
that you mean what you have just said ; or, that so 
noble and gallant a Prince would think of disho- 
nouring me, or my Husband, who now is in prison 
on your account." 

The Lady then quitted the King ; who, after 
passing the whole, of that day, and a restless and 
sleepless night, at the Castle ; at dawn the next 
morning departed in chase of the Scots. Upon 
taking leave of the Countess, he said, ** Dearest 
Lady, God preserve you ! Think well of what I 
have said, and give me a kinder answer." Her 
reply to which solicitation was, however, similar 
to all the former, though Edward would have been 
amply revenged for the rejection of his suit, had 
he possessed the keen eyes of Alice de Grandison ; 
for to their piercing scrutiny, her Sister's heart, with 
all the storm of passions by which it was agitated, 
was laid entirely open. " Alice," she said, *' it is 
too true ; I do not love alone! Edward returns 
my fatal passion. But my raiifd is fixed. I will 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 229 

behold him no more. Would to Heaven that my 
Husband were here !." 

As she uttered these words the Countess sunk 
into the arms of Alice ; and almost at that moment, 
she received a letter from the Earl. •* Heaven be 
praised !" said she, '* Salisbury is on his return ; 
and his arrival will alike prevent the King, and me, 
from nursing a sentiment which ought to be stifled 
in it's birth." Upon the old Lord de Grandison's 
arrival on a visit to his daughter, he failed not to 
observe the profound sorrow in which she was 
plunged; *'Butrejoice, Katharine!" said he, ''your 
Husband will soon be here. By an arrangement 
between King Edward and the Courts of France 
and Scotland, he has been exchanged for the Earl 
of Moray. Check, then, this immoderate grief; 
Salisbury has suffered defeat, but it is without 
disgrace," 

The Countess felt all the pangs of conscious 
guilt, when she heard her Father attribute her 
grief to the absence of her Husband. ** Oh, my 
Father !" she said, when left to the companionship 
of her own painful thoughts, " even thee too, do I 
deceive! I am the betrayer of all who surround 
me ; and dare I meet the gaze of Salisbury ? 
Alas ! my misfortune and my crime are traced in 
indelible characters 'upon my brow." 



230 ORIGINAL 

Edward on his return to his capital, though sur- 
rounded by the most dazzling- splendour, and the 
most enticing pleasures, could not chase from his 
mind the image of the Countess; and, unable any 
longer to bear her absence, he wrote to the Lord 
de Grandison commanding him to bring his daugh- 
ter to Court, for the purpose of awaiting the speedy 
arrival of her Husband. " My Father," said she, 
as soon as the old Lord had communicated to her 
the royal command, ** will not the Earl come hither 
to me?" 

'' Katharine!" answered De Grandison, " the 
slightest wishes of the King it is our imperative 
duty to obey." 

*' My Lord, if you knew — I am a stranger to 
the capital ; does it not abound with dangers ? Is 
there not— ?" 

*' Nay, nay, my child ; you have wisdom, edu- 
cation, and virtuous example to protect you. Once 
more, your Father and your King command you ; 
and you must accompany me." 

De Grandison then made the necessary prepa- 
rations for his own return to the Metropolis; and 
the Countess, under the pretext of indisposition, 
was able to delay her own journey but for a short 
period. News from her Father, however, speedily 
informed her of her Husband's arrival, and this 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 231 

was quickly followed by a letter from Salisbury 
himself, full of the most passionate expressions of 
attachment, and urging her immediate presence. 
To both these she answered by a plea of continued 
illness ; and to the latter, added an earnest en- 
treaty that her lord would himself come to Wark 
Castle, where she had matter of importance to 
communicate to him; being resolved to explain 
the cause of her reluctance to visit London, and, 
confidentially to acquaint the Earl with the solici- 
tations of the King. 

This last letter had remained unanswered for a 
considerable time ; and the Countess feared that 
she had given offence to both her Husband and her 
Father, when at length a messenger arrived from 
London. The Countess snatched his paquet from 
his hand, and eagerly perused it ; it was from her 
Father, and ran thus : — 

'* My dearest Daughter, 

*' The moment has arrived when you must arm 
yourself with all that fortitude which you have 
inherited from me. True grandeur resides in our 
own souls ; that which we derive from fortune 
vanishes with the other illusions, of which this life 
is compounded. You were anxiously expecting 
your Husband ; and he was about to receive further 
honours from his master ; but the King of Kings 



232 ORIGINAL 

has decreed that Salisbury should not live to enjoy 
the bounty of his Monarch. A sudden illness has 
just removed him from this world. 

** Your affectionate Father, 

" De Grandison." 

The decease of the Earl of Salisbury was deeply 
lamented by the Countess. Gallant, generous, and 
affectionate, he had won her esteem ; and had she 
had an opportunity of knowing him longer, might 
have gained her love. Her delicacy too, loaded her 
with self-reproaches, from which she did not at- 
tempt to escape; and made her feel the loss she 
had sustained still more acutely. ** I will repair 
my crime," she said ; " I will revenge the manes 
of Salisbury. The King, although affianced, and 
by proxy espoused, to Philippa of Hainault, will 
renew his suit to me ; but he shall learn that 
esteem and duty are sometimes as powerful as 
love itself." 

By the death of the gallant Earl, King Edward 
found himself deprived of one of the main sup- 
porters of his crown ; and he regretted him not 
less as an useful citizen, of whom the nation was 
justly proud, than as a loyal servant, who was sin- 
cerely attached to his master. Love, nevertheless, 
mingled with the King's regrets; since he could 
not but be sensible that he was now without a 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 238 

rival ; and that the Countess was free from a con- 
straint, which had hitherto separated them from 
each other. The Earl died without children ; and 
the Law compelled his Widow to renounce the 
territorial possessions which were attached to the 
title, and which now reverted to the Crown. This 
event, therefore, rendered her presence in London 
unavoidable; and, on her arrival in the Metropolis, 
her father, desirous to relieve her from the melan- 
choly in which she was plunged, wished to intro^ 
duce her at Court, and present her to the King. 
This proposal, however, met her firm refusal. 
" What is it that you propose to me, my Lord ?" 
said she; ** ere these mourning habiliments are 
well folded round me, would you have me parade 
them in solemn mockery at the foot of the Throne ? 
Never! Leave me, I conjure you, my Lord; 
leave me to solitude and silence ; to forgetfulness 
and despair !" 

De Grandison wished not to constrain the incli- 
nations of his daughter; and upon communicating 
the reasons of her absence, the King affected to 
be satisfied with them. He had, however, com- 
municated his passion, which he did not choose to 
avow to honester courtiers, to Sir WiUiam Trussell, 
one of the most artful intriguers, and insinuating 
sycophants about his Court ; who. anxious only to 



234 ORIGINAL 

secure his place in the King's favour, had encou- 
raged him in the prosecution of this amour, and 
recommended him to use stratagem, and even 
violence, should it be necessary towards the attain- 
ment of his object. 

'' The ingrate!" said the King, when he found 
himself alone with Trussell ; " she refuses me even 
the innocent gratification of beholding her. I ask 
but an interview; I wish but to look upon her 
beauty ; and she refuses to grant me even this 
niggardly boon, for all that she has made me 
suffer." 

*' My Liege," said Trussell, *' it is compromising 
your honour and your dignity, to submit to such 
audacity. The daughter of de Grandison ought 
to feel but too much flattered that King Edward 
deigns to bestow a glance, or a thought, upon her. 
Her husband is in the tomb ; she is free from all 
restraint ; and you have tendered your love : 
what is it that she opposes to your offer ? Her 
virtue ! Is not obedience virtue ? Is not com- 
pliance the first duty of subjects to their Sovereign? 
My Liege, this daughter of de Grandison hides 
intrigue under the name of virtue. Your Grace 
has a rival." 

" Ha!" said Edward^ while his lip quivered, 
and his whole gigantic frame trembled like an 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 235 

aspen leaf; ** by Heaven, thou bast it, Trussell ! 
Fool that I was to feign that delicacy and reserve, 
for which this haughty minion now despises me ! 
Fly to her, then ; demand an audience, and com- 
mand her to appear at Court ; tell her that I will 
brook no answer but compliance." 

Trussell hastened to execute the Monarch's 
orders ; and the King, left to himself, began to 
ponder on the course which he was pursuing. ** I 
have yielded, then," said he, " to the fiend's sug- 
gestions ; and thus abased myself to a level with 
the weakest, and most despicable, of mankind. 
I am preparing to play the tyrant with my sub- 
jects, and my first victim is an unhappy woman; 
whose only crime is the obstinacy with which she 
repels my unworthy addresses. Hither!" he added, 
clapping his hands, and immediately one of his 
pages stood before him ; " hasten after Sir William 
Trussell: bid him attend me instantly.'' 

" Trussell," said the King, as he returned, 
equipped for the errand he was about to undertake, 
*' I have consulted my heart ; I have held com* 
munion with myself; and I have learned, that it 
befits not Edward of England to employ force or 
artifice to achieve the conquest of the heart of 
Katharine : I will vanquish her obstinacy by other 
means." 



236 ORIGINAL 

** What, my Liege ! " said Trussell, *' will you 
then submit ?" 

** To any thing, rather than suffer the Countess 
of Salisbury to accuse rae of despotism." 

** In your Grace's place " said Trussell. 

** In my place," interrupted Edward, ** you 
would act as I do; I wish to shew, that I possess 
the soul, as well as the station of a King. Katha- 
rine of Salisbury shall not be the victim of my 
caprice. Go ; and, in future, give me only such 
counsel as shall be worthy of both of us." 

The King congratulated himself on this heroic 
effort ; and it was one which cost him many pangs : 
nor was the Countess without her struggles, and her 
anxieties ; for, while tlie image of her lost husband 
was hourly becoming more effaced from her heart, 
that of the King was more deeply engraven there 
than ever. She received many letters from him, but 
answered none ; and the pride of the royal lover 
began to take fire again at the neglect and con- 
tumely with which his mistress treated his ad- 
dresses : whilst Trussell used every means of 
nourishing this feeling, and of insinuating that both 
the Father and Daughter were anxious only to en- 
hance the price, at which the virtue of the latter 
was to be bartered. 

De Grandison, who began to think that his 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 237 

daughter carried her grief for her Husband to an 
extravagant and immoderate height, now remon- 
strated with her, somewhat impetuously, on her 
absence from the Court, 

" Do you think," said he, " that I will will^ 
ingly behold you in a state of eternal widowhood ? 
or that I will suffer you to fail in the respect and 
duty which we owe the King ? Is there a Monarch 
in the world so worthy of his subjects' love? of his 
subjects* hearts?" 

"Alas!" said the Countess, *^ who can feel 
more deeply than I do, how much we are indebted 
to him! But take care, my Father, that he per- 
forms the contract for which his royal word and 
your own are irrevocably given. See that he weds, 
and that speedily, Philippa de Hainault." 

** Wherefore should I doubt that he will do so?" 
said de Grandison. *' Is he not pledged, in the 
face of all Europe, to become her husband ? and 
was I not the bearer of his promise to the Earl of 
Hainault to that effect?" 

" He will never wed her, my Father," said the 
Countess ; '' you are yourself witness that from 
day to day he defers the marriage, on the most 
frivolous pretexts." 

" Nay, nay, sweet Katharine," said the old 
Lord, '* wherefore should vou take so much inte- 



238 ORIGINAL 

rest in this marriage? This is but a stratagem to 
put me from my suit. I am going this evening to 
attend the King ; you must accompany me." 

*' Pardon me, my dearest Father ; pardon me, 
but I cannot go." 

" I entreat, I command you," said de Grandi- 
son. " I have too long permitted your disobedi- 
ence and now—" 

** Father ! behold me a suppliant on my knees 
before you ! defer, but for a few days defer this 
visit to the Court ; and then I will obey you." 

" What means this emotion, Katharine ?" said 
her Father; " I find it difficult to refuse you any 
thing. Do not forget, however, that the delay 
which I grant must be but a short one ; in three 
days you must accompany me." 

This interview, however, which the Baron had 
been unable to efiect, either by his commands, or 
his entreaties, he at last managed to accomplish 
by a stratagem. He persuaded his daughter to 
consent to accompany him to a Masqued Ball, to 
which she had been invited by the Countess of 
Suffolk, at her seat, a few miles distant from 
London ; and the fair and noble widow no sooner 
made her appearance among the assembled com- 
pany, than every eye was fixed upon her. Her 
tall and stately, yet graceful figure, glided down 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 239 

the rooms like a visitant from another sphere, when 
an unfortunate accident completely disconcerted 
her. A Mask^ richly dressed, had long followed 
her through all the apartments ; when, as she was 
endeavouring with some embarrassment to escape 
from his pursuit, by hurrying to a vacant seat, her 
Garter dropped upon the floor ! The Mask ea- 
gerly stooped down and seized it, and she as ea- 
gerly, instantly demanded it's restoration. 

^* Nay, gentle Madam," said he, *' this is a 
prize too precious to be lightly parted with, and 
I " 

'* Discourteous Knight !" said the lady, " know 
you whom you treat with so much indignity ?" and 
at these words she removed the mask from her 
face, hoping thus to awe her persecutor into ac- 
quiescence. Her surprise, however, was equal to 
that of any one present, when her tormentor, 
removing his own visor, discovered the features of 
King Edward ! The Lady sank on her knee be« 
fore the Monarch, and the whole company fol- 
lowed her example. 

" Behold!" cried the King, holding up the ra- 
vished Garter, " a treasure, of the possession of 
which I own myself unworthy ; yet will I not part 
with it, for any ransom wealth or power can offer." 
An ill-suppressed burst of laughter followed this 
speech. '\ Honi soil qui Maly pense!" exclaimed 



240 ORIGINAL 

the King. *' Laugh on, my Lords and Gentlemen! 
but in good time the merriest of ye, aye, and the 
greatest Sovereigns of Europe, shall be proud to 
wear this Garter." Thus saying, the King whis- 
pered a few words to the Countess, which seemed 
to occasion her considerable embarrassment ; and 
then, making a lowly obeisance, left the apart- 
ment. 

The declaration which he had that night made, 
he shortly afterwards accomplished, by instituting 
the far renowned order of the Garter ; which, with 
the ceremonies and entertainments consequent 
upon it, for some time occupied the almost undi- 
vided attention of King Edward. His love for the 
Countess of SaHsbury was, however, now openly 
avowed ; and the arrival of the Princess Philippa, 
to whom he had already been married by proxy, 
v/as delayed in consequence of his not sending the 
necessary escort. The people soon began to mur- 
mur at this delay, since not only the honour of the 
King, but of the nation also, was concerned in 
keeping faith with the Count of Hainault, whose 
alliance was of such vital importance to the in- 
terests of England. It was at this juncture that 
the Lord de Grandison presented himself to the 
King, and demanded a private audience. 

'* I have letters, my Liege,'* said the Baron, 
'' from the Count of Hainault, who bitterly com- 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 241 

plains of the delay in executing the treaty, with 
the conclusion of which your Grace was pleased to 
honour me." 

At these words the King changed colour, which 
the Baron was not slow in observing, as he con- 
tinued, *•' wherefore, my Liege, should this in- 
telligence displease you? I perceive in your 
glance traces of indifference, and even of dislike, 
towards this union, which all England expects with 
such impatience." 

*' De Grandison," said Edward, " Kings are 
formed of the same materials as other men : they 
have hearts, and mine is consumed by a passion, 
\thich makes me sensible that rank and power are 
not happiness." 

'* What, my Liege ! have your eyes betrayed 
your heart to another object? can you forswear 
your royal word ? Honour, fame, policy, all for- 
bid it ; all conspire to hasten your marriage with 
the Lady Philippa." 

** If you knew the Beauty of my own Court, 
who has inspired my passion, my Lord, you would 
not press this subject." 

" I know nothing but your Grace's interest and 
honour," said de Grandison. '' Pardon my frank- 
ness, but there can be no motive of sufficient 
weight to occasion any further delay." 

M 



242 ORIGINAL 

" No motive. Lord de Grandison?". said Ed- 
ward, and he sighed. " Alas ! I see that age has 
chilled your blood, and frozen up your heart." 

" My Liege, I burn more than ever with devo- 
tion to your service. If this Marriage be not so- 
lemnized, and speedily, you will offend a power- 
ful Prince, to whom you are indebted for many 
benefits, and also disappoint the fond hopes of 
your loyal people. You forget yourself, my 
Liege ; remember that you are a King, and 
King of England ! I speak to Edward ; who, 
stripped even of the splendours of Royalty, should 
still be worthy of the respect and admiration of 
mankind." 

'* We shall see, my Lord de Grandison," said 
the King; *' but now leave me; leave me." 

The old Baron had no sooner left Edward, than 
the King summoned Trussell to an audience, and 
informed him of his recent interview, and of it's 
unfavourable result ; adding, '* I wished to speak 
to him of his daughter, and of my love for her ; 
but I know not wherefore, I was unable to explain 
myself. There is a fierce inflexibility about that 
old man, which I admire, and yet which irritates 
me. I reverence, and yet I fear him !" 

** And is your Grace deceived by this de Gran- 
dison's affectation of inflexibility and virtue? Be- 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 243 

lieve me, my Liege, that the old lord and his 
daughter both have their price ; although it is a 
somewhat extravagant one. But suffer me to un- 
dertake your Grace's suit ; and doubt not I will 
so manage it, that the Baron himself shall be the 
first to give the lovely Countess to your arms." 

Upon leaving the King, Trussell speedily sought 
and found the Baron alone in his apartment, pe- 
rusing and sighing over his despatches from the 
Count de Hainault. De Grandison had that in- 
stinctive aversion for his visitor, which was natural 
to a mind like his ; still he could not refuse to 
listen to a messenger from the King ; and Trussell 
accordingly called up all the resources of an artful 
genius, skilled in the deepest intrigues and subtle- 
ties of a Court, to explain the object of his visit 
with as much delicacy as possible. The old Lord 
listened with a cold and disdainful attention, till 
the conclusion of his harangue, and then replied, 
" Sir William Trussell, you explain yourself very 
clearly. The King loves my daughter, and you 
come to persuade me to use my influence in in> 
ducing her to yield to his Grace's wishes." 

" Nay, nay, my Lord," said Trussell, *' your 
Lordship misconceives me. I spoke merely of 
management and prudence; of modes of conduct 
to be observed by your Lordship and the Countess. 

m2 



244 ORIGINAL 

You have been more than fifty years a Courtier, 
my Lord, and I cannot be speaking a language 
wbich you do not understand. It is for your 
Lordship, therefore, to decide what answer T 
shall bear from you to the King." 

'' I will bear it myself, Sir William," said de 
Grandison, rising from his seat; ** and that in- 
stantly." 

*' You cannot mean it, my Lord," said Trus- 
seli ; '* you surely cannot " 

'' Any further conversation, between us," said 
de Grandison, *' is quite unnecessary. His Grace 
shall shortly see me." ^ 

Scarcely was the unhappy Father relieved from 
the presence of Trussell, than he sank upon a seat 
in a state of distraction. " This then was Ed- 
ward's reason for desiring the presence of my 

daughter, and he would ! but he is incapable 

of such baseness ; it is that villain Trussell who 
has corrupted the princely current of his thoughts 
and feelings. Or can my daughter be acquainted 
with the King's weakness? Can Katharine be an 
accomplice in this amour? If but in thought she 

has dishonoured these grey hairs " his look 

grew black as midnight as he grasped his sword, 
and rushed from the apartment. 

The interview with his daughter at once re- 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 245 

moved the most painful of the old man's suspi- 
cions, and with an anxious, but determined heart, 
he then presented himself before the King. 

** Welcome, my I^ord de Grandison," said the 
Monarch; *' my good friend Trussell has revealed 
to you the precious secret of my heart ; and you 
come to tell me I have not relied in vain upon 
your friendship, and your loyalty ; your daugh- 
ter " 

'* I have just left her, my Liege ; and she has 
laid open her whole heart to me." 

"And she hates me?" said the King, im- 
patiently. 

*' The most dutiful and loyal of your Grace's 
subjects, Katharine oifers you a homage the most 
respectful and profound. But she is the Daughter 
of de Grandison ; she is the Widow of Salisbury ; 
and that neither of those names have yet been 
tainted with dishonoiir, is a truth of which the 
King of England needs least of all men to be re- 
minded." 

" What have I heard ?" said the King. 

" Truth, my Liege ; Truth, to whose accents 
your minions would close your ears, but whom you 
hear speaking by my mouth. My daughter is not 
fitted for the rival of the Princess of Hainault ; 
and to be If I offend, my Liege, my head 



246 ORIGINAL 

is at your Grace's disposal. I have finished my 
course ; and shall soon be no longer in a condition 
to serve you. Why then should I care for the 
few days which nature might yet permit me to 
live ? At least, I shall die with the assurance, 
that my daughter will cherish the memory of her 
Father, and of his honour. Dispose of me as 
you please, my Liege ; you are my master." 

" Yes, Traitor," answered Edward ; ** and I 
would be your protector, and your friend : but you 
compel me to exhibit myself only as your Sove- 
reign. Instantly command your daughter's pre- 
sence here, or prepare yourself for a lodging in 
the Tower." 

" The Tower, my Liege," replied de Grandi- 
son ; ** I will hasten thither with as much alacrity 
as I interposed my shield between your Grace's 
breast, and the arrow which was pointed at it, on 
the field of battle." 

" Audacious traitor!" said the Monarch; *' away 
with him to the Tower !" 

De Grandison was immediately hurried oft*, 
closely guarded ; and at that moment Sir Neele 
Loring, a gallant knight, who was one of the first 
invested with the order of the Garter, rushed into 
the royal presence, exclaiming, ** What have I 
beheld, my Liege ?" 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 247 

" The punishment due to outraged Majesty,'* 
replied the King. 

*' Nay, nay, my Liege ; wherefore deprive 
your old and faithful servant of his liberty ? and 
for what crime ? Can it be King Edward to whom 
I am speaking ? Can it be Edward who would 
load the limbs of old de Grandison with fetters 1 
But you relent, your Grace remembers — " 

At that instant Trussell entered : " My Liege, 
de Grandison vents his anger in violence and 
threats; he would write to his daughter, but I 
have denied him permission so to do." 

*' You hear. Sir Neele," said the King ; '^ the 
old traitor indulges in threats towards our royal 
person ; but I am weary of your boldness. Sir 
Knight ; I am the King of England, and my sub- 
jects shall obey me." 

The bold Knight had no sooner disappeared, 
than an object of still greater interest presented 
itself; it was the Countess of Salisbury. Pale 
and trembling, with dishevelled locks and stream- 
ing eyes, but still surpassingly beautiful, the lovely 
Katharine threw herself at the King's feet. 

*' Sire ! Sire !" she shrieked, '^ give me back 
my Father 1" 

A blush of self-reproach mantled on the brow 



248 ORIGINAL 

of Edward, as he extended his hand, and raised 
the lovely suppliant from her knees. ** Pardon, 
Madam," said he, " pardon the acts to which a 
lover's despair drives him. Remember that the 
first sight of you kindled in my breast a flame 
which yet I stifled during the lifetime of your gal- 
lant Husband. Salisbury, Heaven assoil his soul ! 
is now in his grave ; and yet now, when I acquaint 
you with my sufferings, and my hopes, you answer 
me only with your reproaches and your tears." 

'* My tears, my Liege, are all that remain to 
me for my defence ; and yet they touch you not." 

'* Say'st thou that they touch me not? Is it 
for you, sweet Katharine, to doubt your empire 
over my heart ? I am no longer able to impose 
laws on that passion which you repay with ingrati- 
tude." 

** I am no ingrate, most dread Sovereign," re- 
plied the Countess ; *' would that you could see 
my heart. But, my Liege, can I, ought I to for- 
get that my aged father is in fetters ?" 

" They shall be broken," said the King ; *' He 
shall resume his station as my best trusted coun- 
sellor, and his daughter — — " 

** Forbear, my Liege, to finish what you would 
say. I speak not of his daughter." 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 249 

*• Then her Father, Katharine,—" 

'* My Father can but die, Sire ; what right 
have I, my Liege, to entertain your Grace's love, 
when the Princess of Hainault is waiting to take 
her seat beside you upon the throne of England. 
But release my Father, and I will wander from 
your presence, where the sight of the unhappy 
Katharine never more shall trouble you. Restore 
my Father to me, and we will begone from hence 
for ever !" 

*' No, adorable Katharine !" said the King, 
*'• your Father shall be free ; and you shall still 
know your Sovereign your lover, and see him 
worthy of your love." 

Thus saying, he left the Countess alone in the 
Presence Chamber, where she remained a con- 
siderable time, much wondering at his behaviour, 
and suffering great uneasiness of mind. At length 
Sir Neele Loring approached, and sinking on his 
knee before her, said, — '* Madam, permit me to 
conduct you to the place, which the King's com- 
mands have assigned for you." 

The Countess much troubled and trembling, 
silently gave the Knight her hand, and traversed with 
him a vast suite of splendid apartments, until they 
at length arrived at a door, which opening led into 

M 3 



250 ORIGINAL 

a magnificent Saloon, where she beheld Edward 
seated on his Throne, surrounded by his Courtiers ; 
all of whom, and even the Sovereign himself, 
were decorated with the insignia of the Garter. 
Upon her entrance, the King rushed towards her, 
and with one hand taking hold of hers, with the 
other placed the Crown upon her head. 

** Approach, dearest Lady!" said he, "and 
share the Throne of the King of England, and the 
homage of his subjects. Become my Consort ; my 
Queen* Beauty, truth, and virtue call you to the 
Throne; and in placing you there I equally fulfil 
my own wishes, and those of my people. They 
will applaud my choice, for it is worthy of me. 
Your Father is free ; and, both to him and you, 
will I repair the injustice which I have com- 
mitted." 

" Beauty, my Liege," said Sir Neele Loring, 
*^* was made to reign ; for it was Man's first Sove- 
reign." 

The Countess, overwhelmed with the suddenness 
of her surprise, was scarcely able to articulate. 
*' My Liege," said she, " the Throne is not my 
place : the Princess of Hainault *' 

*' Yes," said the Lord de Grandison, bursting 
mto the apartment, ** *S*Ae only must sit there! — 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 251 

What, my Liege ! my Daughter crowned, and 
about to ascend the Throne ! Is that the price at 
which my chains are broken ? Back with me to 
the Tower ! Rather eternal slavery, than freedom 
purchased by dishonour !" 

" My Lord de Grandison," said the King, " lis- 
ten to me. I have given your daughter my hand, 
she is my Queen, and wherefore would you op- 
pose our happiness 1 " 

" My daughter Queen I" exclaimed the Baron ; 
*' Katharine," he added, addressing her in a tone 
of supplication, " wilt thou lend thyself to the 
cause of falsehood and perjury? wilt thou aid 
thy King to break a promise plighted in the face 
of Europe? listen to me and prove thyself my 
daughter. Put off that diadem. Fall at the 
King's feet for pardon ; or, if thou can'st not per- 
form the dictates of duty, then die, and Heaven 
pardon thee !" 

He drew a dagger from his bosom as he spoke, 
and as the King arrested his hand he continued, 
" Approach me not, my Liege, or I bury this 
dagger in her heart. Give me thy royal word that 
she shall not be Queen, or " 

" My Liege 1" said the Countess, lifting the 
Crown from her brow, and falling at Edward's 



252 ORIGINAL 

feet, " it must not be ; your royal word is 
pledged ; the nation's honour is it's guarantee ; 
and war and desolation would follow the violation 
of your plighted promise. I am Katharine of Sa- 
lisbury, your Grace's most faithful subject ; but 
dare not be your Queen." 

^' Generous beings !" said the King, ^' it is you 
who teach me how to reign. Rise, gracious Ma- 
dam ; rise, my good Lord de Grandison. You, 
my noble friend, shall instantly proceed to the 
Court of Hainault, to bring over my affianced 
bride. Your lovely daughter must not be my 
Wife ; but you will suffer her to remain at my 
Court, it's brightest and most distinguished orna- 
ment." 

Thus ended the adventure of the Garter, with- 
out any of those disastrous consequences, which 
once seemed so threatening. The Princess of 
Hainault filled the Throne to which she was called by 
the voice of the nation, and won and merited the 
love of her Royal consort. Anxious to give to the 
virtuous object of his former passion a splendid tes- 
timony of the sentiments which he still entertained 
towards her, the King, on his marriage, renewed 
the institution of the Order of the Garter. De 
Grandison long continued to hold the highest place 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 253 

ia the Royal favour; the Countess of Salisbury 
appeared at Court as the friend of Queen Philip- 
pa; and long continued the object of the respect- 
ful passion of the greatest Monarch who had ever 
filled the throne of England. 



BLANCHE OF BOURBON. 

A ROMANCE OF SPANISH HISTORY. 



At his birth, be sure on't, 



Some Devil thrust sweet Nature's hand aside, 
Ere she had pour'd her balm into his breast, 
To warm his gross and earthy clod with Pity. 

COLMAN. 



The accession of Don Pedro to the throne of 
Castile, on the death of his Father Alphonso, was 
speedily followed by violent insurrectionary move- 
ments amongst all classes of the people. Although 
Pedro was the only legitimate offspring of his 
Father, the nation in general fondly wished that 
the sceptre might pass into the hands of Don 
Henry, Count of Trastamare, eldest son of the 
deceased King by his Concubine, the beautiful 
Leonora de Guzman. This Prince had already 
distinguished himself by his valour and wisdom ; 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 255 

his kind and condescending demeanour ; and even 
by his attachment and fidelity to the new King; 
since he laboured with the utmost solicitude not 
only to confirm the allegiance of his own partizans 
to Pedro, but to discourage every attempt at 
disturbing the peace of the Monarchy. Pedro^ 
however, who by his conduct during his Reign 
acquired the surname of " the Cruel," took the 
earliest opportunity of seizing the person of Don 
Henry's Mother, Leonora, whom he immediately 
committed to the custody of the Queen Dowager; 
who no sooner found her hated rival in her power, 
than she caused her to be put to a cruel and lin- 
gering death. All Castile was indignant at this 
atrocity; and Don Henry flew to arms. Don 
Frederick, Grand Master of St. James', Don Tello, 
Lord of Aguilar, and Don Ferdinand, Lord of 
Ledesne, his brothers, the other sons of the un- 
fortunate Leonora, immediately joined him ; and, 
having raised a considerable force, took possession 
of the town of Gijon, and bade defiance to the 
tyrant. 

Intelligence of the revolt of the Princes was 
brought to Don Pedro as he was taking his even- 
ing promenade on the terrace of the royal gardens 
of Valladolid, accompanied by his Prime Minister, 
Don Alphonso d'Albuquerque. ** Hearest thou 



250 ORIGINAL 

this, Alphonso?" said the King. *' The Bastard 
Henry, and his Brothers, have garrisoned the 
Castle of Gijon, and troops, headed by the dis- 
contented nobles, are daily flocking to their assist- 
ance." 

*' I hear it, Sire," said the Minister, ^* with 
sorrow and alarm." 

*' And wherefore so, good Alphonso?" replied 
Don Pedro. " Let all the factions in Castile, and 
they are not a few, rally round the banner of the 
Bastards; let the puling Kings of Arragon and 
Navarre, who have already shewn that they bear 
me no good will, join in the traitorous league ; aye, 
let even the powers of France, and the proud 
islanders of the West, for once agree for my 
destruction ; yet I fear not. I have Allies, whose 
power and influence, not all of these together 
banded, could withstand." 

^' And who. Sire," enquired the Minister won- 
deringly; ** who are the Allies who could possibly 
defend your Majesty against such a confederacy?" 

" The Stars! the Stars are with us, Albu- 
querque!" exclaimed the King. *• Look yonder," 
he continued, pointing to the sky ; '* and see how 
even now, at the very instant that I receive this 
news, the Heavens are smiling on me." 

Albuquerque looked towards the sky, and be- 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 257 

held indeed one of those evenings of surpassing 
beauty, which are seldom seen even beneath the 
glowing atmosphere of Spain. The Sun had set 
some time, but still the west retained a portion 
of his dedining glory, which, with a varied line of 
deep red light, defined the summits of the distant 
hills. Above them spread the deep blue sky, be- 
spangled with innumerable Stars, intensely bright; 
amongst which, the largest and most resplendent 
was the planet Jupiter, which shone over the 
Palace of Valladolid, and seemed to be shedding 
it's brightest beams upon the royal residence. 

*' That is my natal Star !" said the King; " that 
noble planet, or rather that other Sun, which 
seems to traverse the system in rivalship, and not 
in the train of the great source of light and heat. 
See, how all others shrink their beams before him. 
Even Mars, that lurid orb which now threatens 
me, quails before his superior brightness. The 
om.ens pre most propitious!" 

" Even so. Oh King!" said a sharp, shrill 
voice behind them ; and, turning round, they per- 
ceived an aged man, of a noble and venerable 
countenance, with a long white beard, and black 
expressive eyes, which rivalled in brightness even 
the Stars on which they had been gazing. He 
wore a turban on his head, and was dressed after 
the Oriental fashion, in a white flowing robe. This 



258 ORIGINAL 

was Simon Joseph, the favourite Jewish Physician, 
and Astrologer to the King, whom he kept con- 
stantly about his person. 

** Sayestthou so, good Joseph !" said Don Pedro ; 
** and who shall gainsay theey when thou hast read 
the Stars? But what brings thee hither, at this hour?" 

** I came to tell thee, Sire, that this evening, 
as I drew thy Horoscope, I read the prediction 
of strange events. Danger, and contest, but, at 
the same time, triumph and victory were foretold 
there ; aye, and Love was mentioned in the 
starry prophecy. Yon planet Jupiter is now 
Lord of the ascendant ; Mars and Venus are in 
conjunction ; and Saturn, dull and dim, is quenched 
beneath their overwhelming influence." 

'* Thou read'st strange riddles, Simon Joseph," 
said Don Pedro ; ** but a part, at least, of thy 
prophecy is true : for I hold here letters, which 
inform me, that the sons of Leonora de Guzman 
are in arms ; and defy me from behind the strong 
walls of Gijon. What would'st thou have me do ?" 

" On to the fight. Sire !" said the Astrologer, 
and then added, pointing to the planet Jupiter, 
** before that Star sets behind the western hills, 
let the King be on his march to battle, and to 
conquest. Don Pedro, do not hope for ease and 
quietness, but thy reign shall be long and pros- 
perous. Victory shall wait upon thy banners, 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 259 

and Dew kingdoms shall be added to Castile." 
Thus saying, and drawing his robe more closely 
round him, Simon Joseph left the Terrace, and 
the King and his Minister speedily followed him. 
Don Pedro, amongst whose vices cowardice could 
not be numbered, determined to adopt the advice 
of the Astrologer. Although he scoffed at all 
idea of Religion, he was a fervent believer in the 
occult Sciences, and never entered upon any pur- 
suit of importance without consulting the Stars. 
That very evening, accordingly, saw him at the 
head of as many troops as could be mustered at 
so short a notice, depart from Valladolid, having 
left instructions for a formidable force to follow 
him. 

In a few days the King of Castile, with a nu- 
merous Army, had sat down before the Gates o* 
Gijon. They had already had various skirmishes 
on their march with detached parties of the 
enemy ; and on their first attack upon the town 
they carried the most important outpost ; so that 
ultimate success now appeared certain. In the 
mean time, however, the heart of the Monarch 
had surrendered at the first summons to the charms 
of a beautiful young female, of a noble family, 
named Maria de Padilla, in the suite of Madame 
d'Albuquerque, who had followed her husband to 



260 ORIGINAL 

the army. This young lady possessed numerous 
attractions, both of mind and person. Although 
not tall, she was exquisitely formed ; and her 
■whole form and manner were equally graceful and 
bewitching. Her complexion was of the most 
dazzling fairness ; her eyes black and sparkling ; 
and her features of a regularity, in which the most 
fastidious connoiseur in beauty could find nothing 
to object to. She possessed an infinite fund of 
wit, and was of a g^y and lively temper ; but she 
was, at the same time, vain and ambitious ; and a 
perfect mistress of every species of dissimulation. 
Obdurate and sanguinary as was the disposition of 
Don Pedro, he became deeply fascinated with the 
charms of Maria ; ** and Love," say the Histo- 
rians of that age, " held in his bosom divided em- 
pire with cruelty." She, dazzled by the splendour 
of royalty, and the prospect of power and great- 
ness, turned a deaf ear to the remonstrances of 
virtue ; and after a very feeble and ill counter- 
feited resistance, became the Mistress of the King 
of Castile. Don Pedro was now as eager to con- 
clude the war, as he had been to commence it ; 
and having made terms with the revolted Princes, 
he disbanded his forces, and retired with Maria 
to Torrejos, a little town near Toledo. 

It is necessary to state here, that previous to 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. S61 

the occurrence of these events, Don Pedro had 
asked in marriage the hand of the beautiful 
Blanche de Bourbon, Sister of the Queen of 
France, and the Duke of Burgundy ; who, during 
the King's absence on his expedition to Gijon, had 
arrived in the city of Valladolid, and was there 
awaiting the celebration of the nuptial contract. 
To that city the other Princes repaired on the ces- 
sation of hostilities, and the King commended his 
bride to the especial attention of Don Henry, 
Count of Trastamare, until his own return. The 
Count, on his arrival, found that the French Prin- 
cess, of whose beauty and accomplishments the 
most glowing accounts had been generally circulated, 
far surpassed all that rumour had spoken, or ima- 
gination had portrayed. She was of a majestic 
figure, tall, and finely formed. The mild but 
glowing Suns of France had given a dark tinge to 
her cheeks, which well matched with the intense 
deep blue of her eyes, and the jetty ringlets which 
fell in rich clusters down her neck. Her pale high 
forehead and drooping eyelids, spoke of pensive- 
ness, and perhaps melancholy; but the smile which 
frequently illuminated all her features, 

" As thougli her veins ran lightning," 

was full of benevolence and sweetness ; and told, 



262 ORIGINAL 

not falsely, the goodness of her heart. Her voice 
was low and gentle, but it's tones went to the 
heart of the listener ; and her stately step, and 
majestic gait, while they befitted the high station 
which she filled, were unmingled with the slightest 
indication of arrogance, or pride. 

As Don Henry gazed upon this enchanting 
being, he could not but lament that she was 
destined to become the bride of a man, who, al- 
though of high talents, and of handsome and even 
majestic person, was stained with almost every 
vice under Heaven. Still he indulged a hope, 
and that hope was shared by many, that the 
beauty and virtues of the Princess, could not 
but have a genial eff'ect on the disposition of her 
Husband, and be productive of important bene- 
fits, both to him and to the nation. The Queen 
Mother had received her with the most flattering 
distinction ; the Grandees in Valladolid took every 
opportunity of testifying their devotion ; and, when- 
ever she appeared in public, she was greeted with 
the warmest acclamations of the populace. Still, 
however, the King remained atTorrejos, in the so- 
ciety of Maria de Padilla ; and had not even had 
the courtesy to send any communication to her, or 
to the Queen. He would not listen to any intel- 
ligence of his betrothed bride, or even attend to 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 263 

State affairs. The letters of his Mother, ex- 
pressing her chagrin and indignation at his conduct, 
and the remonstrances of his Minister, who repre- 
sented the impolicy of this treatment of a Princess 
of the blood royal of France, were received with 
equal disregard. At length his Courtiers were 
constrained to be silent, for some of them who 
had ventured to speak their minds rather too freely 
upon the subject, he had found himself under the 
awkward necessity of assassinating. The influence 
of Maria increased daily; and to such an extent, 
that it was very generally believed she had es- 
tablished her dominion over him, by practising 
the art of Magic. He caused a Tourney to be 
celebrated in her honour ; and compelled all the 
Grandees at Toledo, and in it's neighbourhood, with 
their wives and daughters, to be present. Here he 
chanced to be so severely wounded in his hand, 
that his life was despaired of by his Physicians ; 
though, after a long delay, the attentions and me- 
dical skill of Maria de Padilla wrought his complete 
cure, to the infinite regret of the nation, and of 
the Court, but especially of Don Henry. 

This Prince was indefatigable in his attendance 
upon the young Queen elect, and endeavoured, by 
the most delicate attentions, to console her for the 
neglect of her betrothed Don Pedro. The Queen 



264 ORIGINAL 

returned his attentions by a gratitude which was 
expressed rather in her eyes, than with her Ups ; 
until at length a more tender feeling by degrees 
began to pervade the breasts of both; although they 
dared scarcely confess it, even to themselves, and 
much less to each other. Indignation at her af- 
fianced husband's conduct, and pity for her own 
forlorn situation, were no unnatural harbingers of 
love in the bosom of Don Henry : while Blanche, 
as she gazed on his fine person, and thought of 
his strong and polished mind ; his military renown ; 
and his high birth ; for his illegitimacy was scarcely 
considered a stain in those days, could not help 
thinking how suitable their union would have been ; 
and wishing, like Desdemona, — 

" That Heaven had made her such a man ! " 

These, however, were thoughts, which they 
carefully locked up within their own bosoms, and 
which were soon afterwards banished even from 
those secret sanctuaries, by the unexpected arrival 
of the King. 

Don Pedro had at length yielded to the advice 
of his wisest Counsellors ; which was seconded by 
Maria de Padilla herself; and determined to pay 
a visit to the Princess Blanche, whom, as yet, he 
had not even seen. The meeting of the Royal 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 265 

couple was in the streets of Yalladoiicl, by torch- 
light. The King- entered the City on horseback, 
attended by Don Ferdinand, and Don Juan of 
Arragon, sons of his Aunt, the Queen Dowager 
of Arragon ; the Grand Master of Calatrava, the 
Ai'chbishop of Toledo, Don Juan de la Cerda, 
Don Alphonso d' Albuquerque, and other great 
lords. The young Queen rode between the Queen 
Mother and the Count of Trastamare ; and was 
attended by the Grand Master of St. James', Don 
Tello of Castile, and the municipal authorities of 
Valladolid. The streets were crowded with the 
population of the City, eager to see the meeting ; 
but, above all, to catch a glimpse of the youog 
Queen, whose beauty was seen to great advantage 
by the light of the innumerable torches which 
blazed around her. As she approached the King, 
the acclamations of the people redoubled, but they 
were frozen into wondering silence, as they ob- 
served the cold and indifferent air with whicli he 
returned her salute. She descended from her 
palfrey, and it was naturally expected that he 
would have done the same ; but he merely extended 
her his hand to kiss, while he continued in conver- 
sation with his minister, Don Alphonso. 

*^The monster!" muttered Don Henry between 
his teeth, as he. assisted Blanche to remount. 

N 



2^ ORIGINAL 

" Aye/' whispered some one in his ear ; '* is 
this the man to be King of Castile, and husband 
of Blanche of Bourbon?" 

Henry turned round, but could perceive no one. 
His own heart, however, echoed the question ; and, 
silently and moodily, he continued to ride on, until 
the Palace gates appeared before him, and he, 
together with the rest of the procession, entered. 

The next day was appointed for the celebration 
of the Marriage ceremony, and, with the earliest 
dawn of morning, all the bells in Valladolid were 
ringing a merry peal ; and the citizens appeared 
in the streets in their holiday garbs^ and wearing 
white favours in honour of the event. A peremp- 
tory order from the King was, however, soon is- 
sued for the silencing of the bells, and commanding 
every one to return to his ordinary occupation, 
upon pain of death. At the hour of noon the 
Koyal cavalcade was seen moving towards the 
Cathedral, slowly and silently as a Funeral pro- 
cession. The King wore a look of dogged en- 
durance ; and Blanche was pale as death ; but there 
was a forced smile upon her lip, which appeared 
more melancholy than sighs and tears could pos- 
sibly have done. The Queen Mother's face 
glowed with resentment and chagrin ; and Don 
Henry kept his eyes fixed upon Blanche, with an 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 267 

expression in which pity, and a still softer feeling, 
could be traced most legibly. The Nobles who 
accompanied the royal party, with heads depressed, 
and their arms folded sullenly upon their bosoms, 
looked more like mutes at an interment, than as- 
sistants at a bridal. 

Notwithstanding the royal mandate, the popu- 
lace had ventured again to assemble in the streets 
when the procession passed ; but pale and silent, 
each of them appeared to feel that he was 
committing a crime, and each look which was bent 
upon the personages as they passed, was stealth- 
like and timid. As Don Pedro rode by them, 
every head was bared, but not one voice was heard 
in gratulation. The approach of Blanche was 
hailed with loud acclamations, which were^ how- 
ever, instantly suppressed ; and every one looked 
timidly over his shoulder, and seemed to fear that 
he had committed an offence, for which instant 
punishment would follow. Every eye was fixed 
on the Count of Trastamare, and gleamed bright- 
lier as he passed ; but no one dared to give an 
open expression to his feelings. One voice, how- 
ever, which the Count instantly recognised as the 
same which had addressed him on the preceding 
day, was heard to shout from amidst the crowd, 
" God save King Henry !" 

n2 



268 ORIGINAL 

All were aghast at this daring exclamation. The 
populace shrank back with fear and horror; but 
the nobles in the Procession, as soon as they had 
recovered from the stupor of their surprise, cried 
out " Treason ! treason \" 

*' Guards, seize the traitor!" exclaimed Don 
Alphonso d' Albuquerque, *' and drag him hither." 

A tall, stout-built man, but pale and squalid, 
with an extraordinary expression of resolution 
and defiance in his countenance, was immediately 
forced before the King, on whose left hand rode 
Don Alphonso. Don Pedro's colour changed as 
he gazed upon him, but the ordinary malignant 
expression of his features was deepened tenfold 
as he exclaimed, " What do'st thou here, Villain?'* 

" What do'st thou here ?" returned the unshrink- 
ing Stranger; *' thou man of lust and blood ! with 
yonder fair and hapless Princess in thy train? 
How long is it since you tore my Sister from 
her abode, the most peaceful and the happiest in 
all Castile, to lodge her in thy vile Harem? How 
long is it since thy steel drank the blood of her 
indignant husband? How long ?" 

** Bind him! gag him!" exclaimed the King, 
foaming with passion. " Lend me thy axe, fel- 
low!" continued he, vaulting from his horse, and 
snatching a partizan from a guard near him. The 



TALES, POEMS^ ETC. 269 

victim was immediately bound, and thrown upon 
the earth ; when the King-, lifting with his own 
band the fatal weapon, at one blow severed his 
head from his body, 

A smile of grim delight played upon the tyrant's 
features as he gazed upon the mutilated trunk 
before him; and listened to the fearful shriek 
which burst from the assembled crowd, who with 
starting eyes and pallid cheeks stared upon each 
other, as if to ask if what they had just witnessed 
was a reality. The unhappy Blanche had fainted 
in the arms of her attendants ; but Don Pedro, 
without waiting for her recovery, with a yell of 
savage laughter again sprang into his saddle, and, 
motioning to his attendants to move on, rode for- 
wards to the Cathedral. There, shortly afterwards 
the Bride, or rather the victim, arrived more dead 
than alive ; and joining her hand with that which 
was yet wet with the blood which it had shed, this 
ill-omened Marriage was solemnized, amidst the 
fear and wonder of all who were present at the 
ceremony. 

Three days had elapsed after the nuptials, and 
Don Pedro was yet inseparable from his beautiful 
Queen ; to whom, those about him began to hope 
that he would become really and permanently at- 
tached ; but on the third he received letters from 



270 ORIGINAL 

Maria de Padilla, who was at Montalban, in whicfi 
she complained bitterly of his absence from her, 
and informed him that she found herself pregnant. 
On receiving this intelligence^ the King's joy 
knew no bounds ; and he immediately summoned 
Ms Minister, Don Alphonso, and commanded him 
to prepare for their immediate departure to join 
Ms Mistress. 

^* Sire," said Don Alphonso^ " to hear is to 
obey; but might the humblest of your subjects 
venture to speak his mind, he would say, that if 
this journey were postponed for a short time, her 
Majesty would be less likely to complain, and the 
factions who pretend to espouse her cause, would 
be unable to find the slightest ground for cen- 
suring the conduct of your Majesty." 

" Peace, idiot!" cried the King furiously; 
" have I not already devoted three days to this 
Bourbon doll ; and as for the factions are not the 
poniard, and the gibbet, and the axe, enough for 
them?" 

" Sire," continued the Minister, ** is it well to 
leave Don Henry in the midst of the discontented 
populace of the Capital, while your Majesty is at 
Montalban? Already do dreams of power and 
sovereignty fill his imagination, and " 

" What! dares the Bastard look so high as 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 271 

that ! " said Pedro^ with a malicious grin : *' well, 
well, his hour will come, but not yet. Love and 
Maria are all that can engage my thoughts at 
present. See, then, that you provide for our 
instant journey." 

In less than an hour after this conversation, the 
King, accompanied by Don Alphonso, and his other 
immediate favourites, and attended by the Royal 
Guard, passed the City gates ; but as he had 
taken no leave of the Queen, or of his Mother, 
and had given no previous intimation of his inten- 
tion to quit Valladolid, it was supposed that he 
was merely gone to enjoy the chase in the neigh- 
bouring foresto Messengers, however, speedily- 
arrived to Madame d'Albuquerque from her hus-- 
band, to inform her that the King and he had set 
otr for Montalban, and that they had instructions 
to escort her thither. The rage of the Queen 
Mother was now ungovernable, and she could 
scarcely be restrained from rushing forth to the 
market-place, and rousing the populace, Don 
Henry, whose attachment to Blanche increased 
in the same proportion with her husband's neglect 
and cruelty, felt his bosom agitated by love and 
indignation. Still he possessed so much of the 
chivalrous loyalty of those days, which bound the 
subject to his Sovereign, however despicable or 



272 ORIGINAL 

infamous be might be, that he could not persuade 
himself to encourage any insurrectionary move- 
ment; notwithstanding his own personal injuries, 
alid although he knew that he had but to lift his 
finger, and the whole population of Valladolid 
would espouse his cause. He, therefore, con- 
tented himself by paying the most delicate and 
respectful attention to the young Queen; and thus 
endeavouring, as far as possible, to alleviate her 
neglected and forlorn condition. The people, also, 
now that the expression of their feelings was un- 
restrained by the presence of Don Pedro, took 
every opportunity afforded them by her appearance 
at the windows of the Palace, or her riding out in 
public, to greet her with the most cordial accla- 
mations. The King in the mean time continued 
at Montalban, completely fascinated with the at- 
tractions of Maria de Padilla; all public business 
was totally neglected by him ; and although mes- 
senger after messenger arrived from Valladolid, 
on the most urgent State affairs, he could not be 
persuaded to return there, or even to peruse the 
depatches of which they were the bearers. The 
Queen Mother repeatedly wrote to him, reproach- 
ing him with his base conduct; and Don Alphonso, 
his favourite Minister, ceased not to urge the 
offence which he was giving to his subjects and 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 273 

to the neighbouring Princes, until at length he re- 
luctantly consented to return to Valladolid ; but 
only on the condition, that Maria de Padilla should 
accompany him, and should be received by the 
two Queens at Court. 

Behold then the Castilian Monarch once more 
in his Capital, or rather in the City which was then 
usually the Royal residence, and in which the 
public business was transacted. His Mistress was 
received with coldness and distance by the Queen 
Mother, and with frigid indifference by Blaiicheo 
With matchless S€lf-possession and effrontery, 
however, she continued to appear at Court; where 
the Nobles thronged around her, as the favourite 
of the King, and her distinguished wit and beauty 
soon made their devotion no constraint, or at any 
rate, rendered their chains very light and easy to 
be worn. Amongst the numerous Grandees of 
Spain, she soon singled out Don Henry as superior 
both in mind and person to all the others. Her 
heart even began to be treacherous to her Royal 
paramour, and she felt that her affections were fix- 
ing themselves upon the Count of Tra£tamr.re. To 
her inexpressible chagrin also, she found that he 
studiously avoided paying the slightest attention to 
her ; that he was pensive and fond of solitude ; 
and that he was evidently a prey to some intense 

N 3 



274 ORIGINAL 

mental suffering. A feeling of compassion ac- 
cordingly mingled with the sentiments which she 
already entertained towards him, and confirmed 
in her bosom the existence of the tyrant passion, 
Love. The diificulty of obtaining a private inter- 
view with him, was, however, extremely great, 
as the King required her to be constantly about 
his person ; and the Count shunned her like a pes- 
tilence. Could she but once acquaint Don Henry 
with her attachment, she could scarcely anticipate 
the possibility of his not returning it ; and even 
should he refuse, she felt assured that she could 
win him to her embraces by the consideration of 
the precarious situation of himself and his brothers ; 
who were detested alike by the Queen Mother, 
and the King ; and of the importance of their 
making a friend of her. 

She had observed that the Count was in the 
habit of retiring to the most solitary and unfre- 
quented parts of the Royal gardens, and resolved, 
therefore, one morning, to endeavour to trace him 
to his haunts, and have an explanation with him 
on that subject with which her bosom was now in- 
cessantly haunted. She had traversed the grounds in 
all directions, and began to despair of succeeding 
in the object of her search, when at length she 
arrived at a Grotto, far out of the ordinary route. 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 275 

and, entering it, perceived Don Henry stretched 
upon the moss in a deep slumber. His face was 
wet with tears, and even in his sleep he heaved 
profound sighs. Maria instantly conjectured that 
his malady was Love. '* Perhaps too," thought 
she, " I may be the object of it. Perhaps the 
studious manner in which he avoids me, and which 
I have attributed to aversion, is only the result of 
his timidity. But alas 1" she continued, sighing, 
'* it is too probable that I have a rival ; and, if so, 
Maria de Padilla shall not long be unavenged." 
As she spake these words, the Count moved in his 
sleep ; and, in turning, discovered some open 
tablets, upon which his left arm had rested, which 
Maria hastily seized, and hurrying out of the Grotto, 
read in them the following lines :— 

<' Cease, cease, my heart ! to nurse a hopeless love ; 

The end of all thy perseverance lies 

Within the orbs of two bright sparkling eyes ; 
But cold as they are bright. Nor can'st thou move 

One spark of passion in that colder breast, 

Or wake one hope that shall, ^midst thy unrest, 
Sing like a sweet bird to my weary SouL 

I dare not even whisper in her ear, 
Whom I adore, the griefs that o'er me roll, 

O'erwhelming all my peace ; yet still the tear 
That wets my lids, how sweet it is to weep 

Such precious dew ! Then will I silence keepj 
And strive to hide my love even from my heart, 
But still flow on my tears, with ye I cannot part/* . 



276 ORIGINAL 

The jealous suspicions which she had entertained 
were now confirmed, and her whole frame shook 
with the violence of her emotions. So severe a 
respect as was here expressed, could not have refe- 
rence to her. *' It is the Queen! 'tis Blanche !" 
she said ; and as the hated idea entered her mind, 
it wrung it almost to madness. '* That Bourbon 
serpent crosses my path at every step ! Through 
her the people hate me ! Her beauty, the dull, 
tame beauty of France, attracts the Courtiers from 
me. With difficulty have I won the wittol King 
from her ; and now, where my very heart is trea- 
sured up, she has coiled herself around it's ten- 
derest fibres." Having carefully copied out the 
verses, she then erased them, and, in a feigned 
hand, wrote the following in their place : — 

" ORACLE. 

It is permitted to thee to sigh, and to love, and to hope j 

To act, and to break the seal of silence. 

Be in no fear either of a sceptre, or of rivals. 

lly heart, one worthy of thee, is interested in thy vs^oes : 

Behold, then, the rev^ard of perseverance I " 

After this she returned to the Grotto, and 
meeting no one there, replaced the tablets where 
she had found them. 

In the mean time, Don Henry on awakening 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 277 

had missed his treasure, and was much disconcerted 
in consequence. He made a careful search, but, 
of course, his search was unavailing. He enquired 
of the gardeners if the}' had seen any person enter, 
but they all replied in the negative. He then re- 
tired with great dismay to his chamber, and was 
not seen again till the evening; when he once 
more proceeded to his favourite haunt, and was 
agreeably surprised to find his tablets in the place 
in which he had lost them. He opened, and, 
scarcely believing his eyes, read the Oracle v/hicb 
Maria de Padilla had written in them. At first he 
was transported with joy, for he hoped that what 
he read had been written by the Queen ; but 
as he reflected more calmly, the improbability of 
such an idea impressed itself so strongly upon him, 
that he dismissed it altogether from his mind. It 
was evident, however, that the precious secret of 
his heart was in the possession of another, who 
might make some pernicious use of it ; and as he 
laid his head upon his pillow that night, his bosom 
was distracted with a variety of painful emotions. 
The next day the Queen Mother held a Court, 
and Don Henry as he was proceeding to it along 
the Palace corridors, met Queen Blanche coming 
out of her apartments, and leaning upon the Arm 
of an Esquire. He immediately offered her his 



278 ORIGINAL 

own, which she accepted with the utmost frank* 
ness, and the Page submissively gave way. As 
they entered in the Royal presence, Henry could 
not prevent the joy of his heart from manifesting 
itself in his face, and having seated Blanche be- 
side the Queen Mother, he took his station behind 
her chair. The whole Court rose on the entrance 
of Queen Blanche, excepting the King, who ma- 
nifested some displeasure at the rising of Maria 
de Padilla, who was seated next him. The latter 
did not fail to observe the delight which Henry 
evinced, as he entered with his lovely escort, and 
whispered to the King, as she glanced towards 
Blanche and Henry, *^ These two persons appear 
to be on a remarkably good understanding with 
each other, my Liege. The Count of Trastamare 
appears to hold a very high place in her Majesty's 
esteem." 

"Very possibly,'* answered the King; "but 
the partizans of her immaculate virtue would insti- 
tute a process against us for daring to hold a doubt 
of it's most perfect purity." 

" I should be rather difficult to convince, never- 
theless," replied Maria. " The French ladies 
are, as every one knows, not only liberal, but 
even prodigal, when they would secure a suitor. 
But you do not exhibit any symptoms of jealousy." 



TALES^ POEMS, ETC. 279 

'* I should exhibit enough of them/' interrupted 
Don Pedro, " if Henry were enamoured of you; 
but my heart takes so little interest either in the 
actions, or the feelings, of Blanche de Bourbon, 
that it is out of her power to disturb my peace of 
mind for a moment." 

While the King and his mistress were thus con- 
versing, the whole Court was astonished at the 
assurance and self-possession of Maria de Padilla, 
who appeared to consider herself as the most dis- 
tinguished female present, and took not the 
slightest notice of Queen Blanche, after having at 
first risen upon her entrance. The two Queens 
were, however, engaged with each other, and 
seemed not to regard either the neglect of Don 
Pedro, or the assumption of his paramour. The 
Count of Trastamare, in the mean time, was 
hardly able to restrain an open explosion of his 
anger and indignation ; and the practised eye of 
Maria, who continued narrowly to observe him, 
easily detected the real state of his feelings. The 
King, at length weary of the restraint and for- 
mality to which he found himself obliged to submit, 
arose, and taking no other notice of Blanche, be- 
yond coldly saluting her as he past, left the Court, 
followed by his immediate retainers. Maria, 
partly out of regard for a decorous appearance, 



280 ORIGINAL 

and partly from the pleasure which she experiended 
in being- in the presence of Don Henry, remained 
for a few moments, in the seat which she had oc- 
cupied, and then also followed the King. 

Don Henry still stood behind the chair of 
Blanche, and as her brutal husband passed her in 
the manner in which we have described, he gave 
utterance to a deep drawn sigh. 

** You are in love, my Lord," said the Queen, 
turning round to him, and smiling. 

" I am so, indeed. Madam,'* replied Henry ; 
*' my respect for your Majesty will not allow me 
to disavow it, but my affection is mingled with 
anger." 

" You are then/' added Blanche, *' more un- 
happy than I had supposed ; for you are also jea- 
lous." 

** Alas ! no, Madam ; I am so far from jea- 
lousy, that my anger is excited, because others do 
not pay to the object of my love the attentions and 
respect which are due to matchless beauty, and 
unequalled virtue." 

As he uttered these last words, he seized her 
hand, and kissed it fervently. She withdrew it 
silently, but her heart too well understood his 
meaning, and she sighed deeply, as she compared 
the handsome and accomplished Prince who knelt 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 281 

before her, with the man with whose destiny her 
own was iudissolubly united. 

** Your Majesty also sighs," said Henry. 

" Few persons are exempt from some sorrow," 
returned the Queen ; and she sighed still more 
deeply. 

** True, Madam," said the Count ; ** and your 
Majesty finds cause enough in the cruel and inju- 
rious treatment of the King." 

" Nay," said Blanche, '* his Majesty, unkind 
as he appears, has doubtless ample reasons for his 
conduct. Some strange fault of mine must be 
apparent to him, which my ignorance has not yet 
discovered to myself." 

" Say not so, sweet lady," replied Henry; "he 
can see nothing in you but goodness. Where is 
the wonder that a Monster should be the enemy of 
beauty ?" 

*' How can you call him an enemy of beauty," 
asked the Queen, " when you look upon Maria de 
Padilla? but I entreat you, Sir, let us close 
this conversation which has already proceeded too 
far." 

Thus saying, the Queen rose, and left the 
Presence Chamber; when the whole Court followed 
her example : and Blanche proceeded, accompa- 
nied by a young French lady, named Adelaide de 



282 ORIGINAL 

Montauban, who was much ia her confidence, to 
take her accustomed walk in the Royal gardens. 
To Adelaide she had already confessed that she 
felt a more than ordinary interest for the Count of 
Trastamare, and that she considered him the 
noblest and most accomplished Cavalier at the 
Castilian Court ; and she now related to her the 
conversation which had recently passed between 
them, and her consequent uneasiness. 

" The Count, Madam," returned Adelaide, ** is 
doubtless enamoured of your Majesty. His con- 
duct towards you has long convinced me of it; and 
if you have not observed it, I am persuaded that 
Maria de Padilla has not been so blind. Her 
watchful eye is ever upon him, or upon your 
Majesty, and the expression sometimes of envy, 
and sometimes of malignity, in her countenance, 
shews that she takes a more than ordinary interest 
in the affair." 

" I have felt her basilisk glance upon me," said 
the Queen, " more frequently than I desired. But 
bark ! what noise is that I" 

The interesting nature of their conversation had 
led them much beyond their usual walk, and as 
they approached the Grotto, which has been already 
mentioned, they heard voices in earnest conver- 
sation. 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 283 

** Nay," said a voice, which they immediately 
recognised to be that of the Grand Master of St. 
James*, the brother of Don Henry, ** wherefore 
deny a fact so apparent to all ? What else mean 
this abstracted carriage, these solitary rambles, 
these sighs, and even tears 1 this refraining from 
all pursuits consistent with your age, and cha- 
racter, and rank ?" 

** And are not/' said Don Henry, *' the load 
of ills with which Castile is distracted, and the 
injurious treatment with which our house is over- 
whelmed, sufficient to account for all this ? Can 
I mix in the follies and frivolities of the Court of 
Valladolid, while my heart is bleeding with the 
wounds of my country, and with it's own V 

** Alas ! my brother," replied the Grand Mas- 
ter, " the injuries of Castile^ and of our house, 
are of a much more ancient date than this change 
in your behaviour. When you first became aware 
of them, they worked very different effects upon 
you, from those which I now behold. Then you 
were the lion roused from his lair ; now you are 
the sloth shrinking to it's hiding-place. You are 
in love, Henry, and Queen Blanche is the object 
of your misguided passion." 

** You have probed me to the heart," exclaimed 



284 ORIGINAL 

Don Henry, '* and extracted frora it the secret 
which I thought hidden in it's deepest recesses." 

The Queen now listened with the most intense 
and painful interest, but the voices grew faint and 
indistinct, and were soon lost in the distance. 

'* Unhappy that I am !" she cried, " hated 
where I expected to be beloved ; and beloved 
where love is crime, and the parent not of de- 
light, but of danger, and misery, and guilt. Oh ! 
that we were once more in our own sweet France, 
Adelaide ! where hearts are happy as the skies are 
genial. Where no torrid clime like this mingles 
pestilence with it's grandeur, and poison with it's 
beauty; Avhere the Suns scorch not while they 
warm ; and where hearts are the nurseries of feel- 
ings, fervent and passionate as those that exist 
here, but unmixed with cruelty, and unstained 
with sorrow, or with crime." 

By this time all the persons of whom this nar- 
rative treats had nearly come to an eclaircissement 
with each other ; excepting that Maria de Padilla 
had not yet had an opportunity of fully explaining 
to the Count of Trastamare the sentiments which 
she entertained towards him. That opportunity 
was, however, very soon afterwards afforded her, 
on the occasion of the Marriage of his brother 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 285 

Don Tello, the Lord of Aguila, with the beautiful 
Donna Joanna de Lara, heiress to the Signiorj of 
Biscay. 

As all the nobility in Valladolid were to be present 
at the solemnization of this Marriage, and the en- 
tertainment which followed, Don Pedro, much as 
he hated all his brothers, was constrained, out of 
policy, and in order to preserve an appearance of 
cordiality and reconciliation, to shew himself at 
the nuptial feast ; although he, as usual, stipu- 
lated for the presence of Maria de Padilla also. 
Don Henry was, of course, of the party ; but he 
continued to wear that look of abstraction and me- 
lancholy, for which he had lately become remark- 
able ; but his brother, the Grand Master, had told 
him that his every look and action were minutely 
watched by Maria, and had, therefore, conjured 
him not to keep his eyes so constantly fixed upon 
the Queen. Thus cautioned, he withdrew them 
from the object of his affection, and fixed them 
upon the ground. After the Banquet, the party 
divided into numerous groups ; and, of the more 
distinguished personages present, Don Pedro at- 
tached himself to the Queen Mother; Blanche 
conversed with the young Bride ; the Bridegroom 
and Don Alphonso d' Albuquerque were engaged 
in close conversation with each other : and Don 



286 ORIGINAL 

Henry found bimself obliged to submit to the ad- 
vances of Maria de Padilla. 

" Count of Trastamare/* said she, smiling-, '* it 
belongs neither to your rank, or to your age to 
appear thus abstracted and pensive in so distin- 
guished an assembly; and if your perseverance 
proposes to itself no other end, it appears to me 
to be but to little purpose. Is it of the earth on 
which we tread that you are enamoured ? It seems 
that you cannot prevail upon yourself to look 
upon any thing else, and because that is mute, 
I suppose you have vowed to be so also." 

Maria was the object of Don Henry's unmixed 
hatred and contempt, and but for the words per- 
severance and end, which she had used in the 
course of her address to him, and which he in- 
stantly recognised as having been contained in the 
verses which he had lost, he would not have deigned 
her an answer. His curiosity, however, as well as 
his fears, was roused, and he replied, — '* If I am 
amorous of the Earth, fair Lady, then have I as 
many rivals as there are kingdoms and provinces, 
and all the heroes who exist dispute her favours 
with me : what wonder, therefore, is it that I am 
sad?" 

** Then," returned Maria, " you should address 
your vows to objects where you would meet with 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 287 

no competition, and where they would be fa- 
vourably received. Have you any difficulty in 
explaining the Oracle ^ or must I interpret for you ?" 

** Madam," answered the Count, ** we have 
discontinued the customs of antiquity, and I know 
not that you would be a just interpreter of the 
decrees of heaven.'' 

'* It is only of the decrees of Love that I 
would speak," replied Maria; *' and if I were to 
interpret them to you now, perhaps it would not 
be for the first time. Behold," she added, giving 
him the verses which she had copied from his 
tablets, " and tell me whether a heart which can 
thus express itself stands in need of consolation?" 

The terrible words which Dante read upon the 
gates of Hell could scarcely have excited a 
stronger agitation, than that which Henry felt at 
beholding his Sonnet in the hands of this artful 
and malignant woman. Fear, scorn, and indigna- 
tion took by turns possession of his bosom. His own 
situation and that of his brothers was sufficiently 
insecure at the Court of a cruel and treacherous 
tyrant, under the domination of such a woman ; 
and to this was now added the peril to which he 
bad exposed the Queen, by placing her in the 
power of her bitterest enemy. 



288 ORIGINAL 

Maria perceived his agitation and exclaimedy — 
'* You fear me, and you have reason so to do ; 
because I can make a very different use of your 
secret from that which I would wish. Although I 
am not indebted to you for my knowledge of that 
secret, yet will I put you in possession of my own ; 
leaving the opposition of scruples to common minds. 
What can you hope from the sentiments which 
you entertain for Blanche of Bourbon? Think 
you, that after discovering my own passion, I will 
suffer you to indulge yours with impunity ? Speak 
then, Don Henry, is my love returned ? or, are we 
henceforth mortal enemies ? for, after the pangs 
which this avowal costs me, I will accept of only 
love or enmity !'* 

That it had cost her much was evident, from 
her tone and manner ; for, while she spake, even 
the unabashed front of Maria de Padilla was suf- 
fused with a crimson hue. Her voice faltered ; 
her head drooped ; and the moisture in her eyes 
for once attested the sincerity of her expressions. 
The Count was also sufhciently agitated. With 
all her beauty, and all her talents, he could not 
surmount the indignation and contempt in which 
he held her : and even that beauty, and those ta- 
lents, suffered, in his mind, in comparison with 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 289 

those of the Queen. The idea, too, that he had 
exposed the latter to the ffiahgnity of her rival, 
overwhelmed him with terror. 

'* T confess. Madam," at length he answered, 
*' that I am the author of those love verses to 
which you replied by an Oracle : but what does 
that fact prove further, than that I have an inclina- 
tion for Poetry I If I were in love with the Queen, 
should I be insane enough to discover it so rashly I 
The sentiments towards me which you have with 
so much delicacy avowed, bind me your grateful 
slave for ever. You are beautiful enough to drive 
a man of my age mad with ecstasy. But I must 
preserve, for I have reason enough so to do, the 
respect which I owe the King, and " 

** You would lose it with all your heart," said 
Maria, interrupting him, " if the Queen asked 
you. I love you, to my misfortune. Take care 
that you do not love her to her misfortune, and 
your own. None speak as I have spoken, until 
their resolves are fully made. Remember that it 
is dangerous to make me suffer ; and that I am 
not of the humour to let my blushes be seen and 
despised, with impunity." 

Thus saying, she walked away without wait- 
ing for his answer, and entered into conversa- 
tion with Madame d' Albuquerque. The rest of 

o 



290 . ORIGINAL 

the evening passed off gloomily and heavily. The 
King sat mute and motionless ; the Queen, after 
vainly endeavouring to rally her spirits, sank at last 
into that listless melancholy which the presence of 
Don Pedro always inspired ; and the Count re- 
lapsed into his usual abstractedness and silence, 
from which he was only roused by the breaking 
up of the party. 

That night a thousand agitating feelings of love, 
jealousy, anger, and mortified pride, haunted the 
bosom of Maria de Padilla. She had stooped 
to solicit the affection of Don Henry, and her suit 
had been rejected. Sometimes she meditated his 
death, and she knew that she could procure it 
easily. She had but to hint such a wish to her 
Royal lover, who then slumbered by her side, and 
the Count of Trastamare would be speedily num- 
bered with those who were. Then again, all her 
love for him rushed upon her heart, and the idea 
which she had conceived but a moment before, was 
rejected with horror. Then the hated image of 
Blanche of Bourbon would occupy her mind ; that 
double rival, with charms and graces at least equal 
to her own ; and with virtues which won for her 
the benedictions and esteem of all. '* That ser- 
pent must be crushed/' said she ; *^ and who dare 
doit, if not I? Yet, yet," she added, as some- 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 291 

thing of woman's softness mingled with her hate 
and jealousy, " even she might be spared, could 
but Henry be weaned from her. I must see and 
speak to him on that subject once again; and, 
should he still continue obstinate, let the bolt 
fall!" 

Thoughts like these so occupied her mind during 
the whole of the night, as to chase away all slum- 
ber from her eyelids; and soon after daybreak 
she rose to seek the Grotto in which she had before 
discovered Don Henry ; resolved, should she again 
find him there, to obtain an explicit declaration. 
Leaving the King still slumbering, she descended 
to the gardens ; yet though the Sun had not long 
risen, and the night dews were still thick upon the 
ground ; when she arrived at the Grotto she found 
that some persons were there before her, and 
heard voices in earnest conversation. As she ap- 
proached near enough to be able to see who they 
were, she was astounded to behold Queen Blanche, 
and Don Henry on his knees, before her ; and to 
hear the Count exclaim, as he seized her hand and 
kissed it rapturously, " Fly, dearest Madam! fly 
from a cruel tyrant, who hates you ; and a malig- 
nant rival, who is plotting your destruction !" 

At that moment the demons of jealousy and 
hatred took full possession of the soul of Maria de 

o2 



292 ORIGINAL 

Padilla ; and, as she gasped for breath, she was 
obliged to lean against a tree, to support herself 
from falling. As soon, however, as she recovered 
her bodily strength, she did not hesitate for an in- 
stant as to the course which she should pursue, but 
swiftly and silently retracing her steps to the 
chamber of the slumbering King, she there shrieked 
out, " Awake, Don Pedro ! King of Castile, 
awake ! Treason and dishonour are in thy Palace ! 
Awake ! awake ! " 

The King started from his sleep, and seizing a 
dagger which always hung beside him, stared 
wildly in the direction whence the voice proceeded ; 
" Ha! my sweet Maria!" said he, as a smile 
succeeded the scowl upon his brow, when he 
perceived by whom his slumber had been disturbed, 
^* is it thou? 'twas but a hideous dream then. 
Methought I lay, powerless and helpless, upon the 
earth, whilst the accursed Henry stood above me 
with a naked sword, which Blanche of Bourbon 
directed to my heart. I had no power to stir, but 
felt his fatal steel drinking my life blood, when 
thy sweet voice awoke me. It was a silly dream. 
Love ! but " 

" Your dream was true, my Liege," replied 
Maria, interrupting him ; " arise, and I will shew 
you it's interpretation." 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 293 

Hastily throwing a loose robe round him, and 
seizing his sword, the King accompanied Maria 
into the gardens ; and two soldiers of the Royal 
guard, whom he hastily summoned, followed them. 
They were not long in reaching the Grotto, near 
which, listening with lowering brows, and beating 
hearts, to the conversation within, we must for a 
moment leave the Monarch and his paramour. 

Don Henry had, on the previous evening, left 
his Brother's nuptial feast, full of sorrowful fore- 
bodings. He had discovered that the most precious 
secret of his heart, was in the possession of one, 
who of all others had equally the inclination and 
the power to make a dangerous use of it. He 
felt the slippery and dangerous ground on which 
he stood, at the Court of a cruel and treacherous 
Prince like Pedro ; and that his personal safety 
could only be secured by instant flight. Still he 
could not leave the Queen exposed to so many 
dangers ; since he well knew her life was unsafe in 
the keeping of her husband and of Maria ; espe- 
cially exasperated as the latter would feel at his 
rejection, and his departure. As these thoughts 
crossed his mind, Adelaide de Montalban passed 
him in the great corridor of the Palace, and he at 
once unfolded to her the enmity of Maria, and the 
danger of her mistress. 



294 ORIGINAL 

** Alas," said Adelaide, ** the good Queen and 
I have long", long been convinced that her heart 
is full of hatred and treachery towards her. But 
whither can she fly? how can she save herself?" 

** Beg the Queen," said he, '* to grant me but 
half an hour's conversation to-morrow, at the 
silver Grotto, at sunrise ; for it is too hazardous 
to speak to her for a moment when this she-devil, 
or her spies, are watching every movement. The 
hour and place I have named will secure us from 
interruption, and I may then be able to propose 
some mode of rescuing her Majesty from the perils 
which surround her. Promise me that you will 
propose this to her.** 

'* I promise you faithfully, my Lord,** said 
Adelaide. 

" Then, fare thee well, pretty maiden," added 
Henry ; *' for this conference has already lasted 
long enough for our safety." 

The next morning saw the Count de Trastamare 
at the rendezvous at the hour appointed ; and he 
had not long to wait the arrival of Queen Blanche, 
" Count," said the Queen, ** before we commu- 
nicate further with each other, let me exact a pro- 
mise from you, that, not now, nor ever, shall I 
hear from you any declaration of such a passion 
as that which you rashly hinted at in our last con- 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 295 

versation ; and the indulgence of which, the laws 
of God and man alike prohibit." 

'* I own my fault, Madam !" said Don Henry, 
** and entreat your pardon for the inconsidera- 
tion and rashness of my conduct. My heart was 
full, and the conduct of Don Pedro towards your 
Majesty stirred it to overflowing. But I readily 
promise all that you can demand : you shall per- 
ceive nothing in my conduct towards you, but the 
most respectful deference, and the warmest solici- 
tude for your welfare. My purpose in soliciting 
this interview, is to warn you that your life is in 
danger, and to point out to you the propriety of 
seeking safety by immediate flight." 

" I know too well," she replied, *' how pre- 
carious is my situation among the hollow hearts, 
and blood-stained hands, which crowd this Court ; 
but what new cause of alarm have you dis- 
covered ?" 

" Alas, Madam ! your bitterest foe has not only 
made me a tender of her aflfections, which I re- 
jected with scorn ; but she has also discovered the 
fatal passion which already occupied my heart, and 
has, in no equivocal terms, informed me, that your 
Majesty's life is in her hands, and threatened to 
exercise the power which she possesses." 

** Alas ! alas !" said the Queen, '* guiltless as 



296 ORIGINAL 

I know myself, how am I environed with dangers 
through the crimes, and the indiscretions of others 1 
How am I to save myself! Long since would I 
have taken shelter at my Father's Court, but that 
I had no means of escaping thither." 

'' Then listen to me, Madam/' said the Count. 
" My brother, Don Tello, will this day depart 
with his suite to take possession of the Signiory of 
Biscay. Your Majesty may take your accustomed 
ride in the forest at the hour at which he passes 
through it, and then join his escort ; where I can 
ensure you a hearty welcome. The King con- 
cerns himself so little about your movements, that 
before your flight can be discovered, you will be 
beyond the reach of pursuit. Arrived in the terri- 
tories of my brother, the power of Don Pedro 
may be defied, and measures easily concerted for 
sending your Majesty to the Court of France." 

*' Dangers and difficulties attend your plan. 
Count," said the Queen, " but despair has seldom 
any alternative but a choice of evils ; and I con- 
fess that I cannot discover any better mode of 
effecting my escape from the evils which surround 
me, than by the path which you have pointed out." 

" Then," said Don Henry, falling on his knees, 
and pressing her hand to his lips, '• do not hesitate 
to pursue that path which will lead you to peace and 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 297 

safety. Fly, dearest Madam ! fly from a cruel 
tyrant, who hates you ; and a malignant rival, who 
is plotting your destruction !" 

As he uttered this, a slight rustling was heard 
amongst the foliage which concealed the entrance 
to the Grotto. It was Maria de Padilla, who 
started when she heard the words with which the 
Count concluded, and had nearly discovered her- 
self as she retreated. All, however, was in an 
instant perfectly tranquil; for with noiseless tread, 
and a heart which, although nearly bursting with 
the violence of it's emotions, she scarcely per- 
mitted to beat, lest even it's throbbing should be- 
come audible, she had stolen away to apprise the 
King of her discovery. 

" Our untimely meeting. Count," said the 
Queen, " has startled even the feathered race 
from their nests among the bushes. As to the 
plan which you have devised for me, I will venture 
to pursue it, come what, come may ; it may per- 
haps lead, as you promise me, to safety, but to 
peace, never ! That is a word which hereafter may 
sound in the ear of Blanche of Bourbon, but to 
which her heart must ever be a stranger." 

A deadlier paleness spread over the wan features 
of the Queen, as she uttered these words, and 
tears, not profuse and flowing, — 

o3 



298 ORIGINAL 

" The heart's gentlest waters, 
Lightening the fount they flow'd from ;" 

but in large heavy drops, slowly gathered beneath 
her eyelids, and fell upon her bosom. 

" Say not so, gentlest Madam," returned Don 
Henry ; "all residences are not as dismal as the 
Castle of Valladolid ; all hearts are not as cold 
and barbarous as Don Pedro's. The vows which 
you have plighted to him, he has himself rendered 
null and void, and in the compass of the world, 
surely another will be found who will know how to 
estimate " 

** No more, Count ; no more of this," said the 
Queen, interrupting him. ** It has pleased Hea- 
ven to link me to Don Pedro by irrevocable ties. 
For yourself, rest assured that you possess my 
esteem, my gratitude, and even my affection,- " 

** Say'st thou so. Traitress !" shouted Don 
Pedro, who had arrived only in time to hear the 
latter part of her answer to Henry. ^' Adultress ! 
miscreant ! serpent of France ! here receive the 
reward of thy perfidy and shame !" 

Thus saying, he passed his sword thrice through 
the body of the unhappy Queen, who fell at his 
feet bathed in blood. Don Henry, although un- 
armed, would have rushed upon him, but was in- 
stantly made a prisoner by the guard. With the 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 299 

cold, Gorgon-like gaze of Maria de Padilla fixed 
upon him, his blood ran chilly in his veins at this 
hateful sight; his lips quivered, and for a moment 
he could have fancied himself undergoing the me- 
tamorphosis which the glance of Medusa is said to 
have effected in those on whom it was fixed. 

*' Sire!" said Maria, in an under tone to the 
King, as she raised his hand wet with the blood 
of his Queen to her lips, — " behold the traitor ! 
what shall be his doom ?" 

** To the scaffold with him! to the block in- 
stantly!" 

" Not so, my Liege, not so ; the Bastard's fate 
would but excite too much sympathy in Valla- 
dolid, where he has contrived to gain the people's 
hearts ; and his brother Don Telle would not suffer 
his death to pass unrevenged. Strip him of his 
titles, degrade him, banish him ; and thus prolong 
his pangs for years, instead of the brief interval 
between the uplifting of the axe and it's descent." 

*' Thou counsellest wisely, my sweet Maria," 
said the King ; and then turning towards his pri- 
soner, added, — ** thank my mercy that 1 will not 
stain myself with thy bastard blood, traitor ! but 
upon pain of death, instantly begone ! nor let 
Castile be further polluted by thy presence. De- 
part not, however, as Count of Trastamare, but 



300 ORIGINAL 

simply, Henry de Guzman, the fruit and evidence 
of thy mother's infamy 1" 

*' Tyrant and murderer !" retorted the indignant 
Henry, '* I will fly from Castile, and even to the 
end of the earth to escape from the domination of 
such a monster as thou art." 

The King grinned fiercely, and raised his weapon, 
but his arm was restrained by Maria ; and his fears, 
and not his clemency, having at length triumphed 
over his thirst for blood, Don Henry walked un- 
injured, out of the custody of the guards^ 

Month succeeded month, and year rolled after 
year, and the blood of Blanche of Bourbon seemed 
to call for vengeance in vain. That vengeance 
was at length, however, fully and signally accom- 
plished by a series of events, which are too familiar 
to the readers of French and Spanish history to 
require to be enumerated, Maria de Padilla, 
though loaded with the favours of Don Pedro, 
could not give him her heart, and the remembrance 
of her flagrant crimes and her unrequited affection, 
combined to bring her to an early grave ; whilst 
Don Pedro, after a reign of unexampled cruelty 
and oppression, was chased from his throne by 
his indignant subjects, and died by the hands of 
his deeply-wronged brother, Don Henry, Count 
of Trastamare, who subsequently wore his crown. 



■TALES, POEMSp ETC, 301 



SHAKSPEARES 

SUPERNATURAL CHARACTERS, 



He was the Soul of genius, 
And all our praj^es of him are like waters 
Drawn from a spring, that still rise full, and leave 
The part remaining greatest. 

JONSON. 



It is one of the most striking peculiarities in 
the genius of Shakspeare, that, although he is 
eminently the Poet of Nature, and exhibits her 
with singular felicity in her ordinary and every day 
attire, yet that, when he gets ** beyond this visi- 
ble, diurnal sphere," he surpasses all other writers, 
in the extraordinary power and invention which he 
displays in the delineation of Supernatural beings. 
It has been justly remarked, that, in his most 
imaginary characters he cannot be so properly said 
to go beyond Nature, as to carry Nature along with 
him, into regions which were before unknown to 



302 ORIGINAL 

her. There is such an extraordinary propriety 
and consistency in his supernatural beings, and 
every thing which they say and do, is in such strict 
accordance with the character with which he has 
invested them, that we at once become, as it were, 
denizens of the imaginary world, which the potent 
art of the Poet has conjured around us ; the mar- 
vellous merges into the probable; and astonish- 
ment and surprise are changed into intense interest 
and powerful sympathy. Shakspeare is the only 
Poet who effects this ; at least, to the same ex- 
tent. The magic of other writers pleases and 
surprises us ; but in that of Shakspeare we are 
thoroughly wrapt up. We are as much under the 
influence of the wand of Prospero, as are Ariel 
and Caliban ; the presence of the Weird Sisters 
on the blasted heath, arrests our attention as 
strongly as it did that of Macbeth and Banquo ; 
and the predictions of the prophetic Spirits on the 
eve of the battle of Bosworth, ring as fearfully 
and as solemnly in our ears, as they did in those of 
the conscious usurper. The great secret of all this 
is, the wonderful art with which the character of 
these visitants from another world is sustained, 
and in which they are not surpassed by any of our 
Author's representations of mere humanity, Ariel 
is as perfect and harmonious a picture as Miranda, 



TALES, POEMS, ETC, 803 

or Ferdinand; and, above all, the Witches in 
'* Macbeth!^ are creations on which the Poet has 
lavished all his skill, and exhausted all his inven- 
tion. 

The Supernatural naachinery of which he makes 
the most frequent use, is founded upon the popular 
belief in Ghosts. This is a superstition which has 
existed in all ages and countries, and amongst all 
classes and conditions of men. There are many 
who affect to despise it, but it is scarcely too much 
to say that there never existed an individual who 
was not, at some period or other, under the in- 
fluence of the feelings which such a belief excites. 

The " Saint, the savage, and the sage," the 
man of letters and the uninformed peasant ; the 
child of Science, who can explain the structure of 
the universe ; and even the Sceptic, — Hobbes, for 
instance, among many others, — who refuses to give 
credence to any written revelation of the will of 
the Creator ; have all confessed that 

" There are more things in Heaven and earth, 
Than are dream'd of in our philosophy." 

Hence this belief has become an engine of most 
potent influence in the hands of the Poet ; since 
by it he could work upon the feelings of all man- 



304 ORIGINAL 

kind. The great Authors of antiquity, and those 
of Spain and Italy, and above all, those of the 
north of Europe, the countries of cloud and mist, 
the 

" Lands of brown heath and shaggy wood, 



where the phenomena of Nature are such power- 
ful auxiliaries to a lively imagination, and a cre- 
dulous understanding, all these have delighted in 
breaking down the barrier between the corporeal 
and the spiritual world, and in shaking our dispo- 
sitions, 

" With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls." 

The most distinguished writers of our own age 
have not neglected to avail themselves of this po- 
pular Superstition, if such it must be called. Co- 
leridge's ** Ancient Mariner;^ Lord Byron^s 
*' Manfred J' and ^* Siege of Corinth;'' and that 
masterpiece of the mighty Wizard of the North, 
the *' Bride of Lammermoor,'* are proofs, amongst 
innumerable others, of the ability which our con- 
temporaries have evinced, when they have ventured 
to lift up the veil which shrouds the secrets of the 
spiritual world. 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 305 

It is, therefore, not surprising that Shakspeare 
should have enrolled these shadowy beings among 
bis Dramatis personce ; or, that in his management 
of them he should have displayed consummate 
genius. The introduction to the entrance of the 
Ghost in ** Hamlet " shows infinite taste and 
judgment. Just as our feelings are powerfully 
excited by the narration of it's appearance on the 
foregoing evening, the speaker is interrupted by 
*' majesty of buried Denmark'' once more stand- 
ing before him : — 

" The bell then beating One, 



But soft, break off! — look where it comes again V* 

then the solemn adjurations to it to speak ; the aw- 
ful silence which it maintains; the impotent at- 
tempts to strike it ; and the exclamation of Ho- 
ratiOf when it glides away, — 

" We do it wrong, being so majestical, 
To offer it the shew of violence," 

present to us that shadowy and indistinct, but at 
the same time, appalling and fearfully interesting 
picture, which constitutes one of the highest efforts 
of the sublime. The interview with Hamlet is a 
masterpiece. The language of this awful visitant 



306 ORIGINAL 

is admirably characteristic. It is not of this world. 
It savours of the last long resting-place of mor- 
tality ; ** of worms, and graves, and epitaphs/' It 
evinces little of human feeling and frailty. Ven- 
geance is the only passion which has survived the 
wreck of the body ; and it is this passion which 
has burst the cerements of the grave, and sent 
it's occupant to revisit the " glimpses of the 
moon." It's discourse is of murder, incest, suf- 
fering, and revenge ; and gives us awful glimpses 
of that prison-house, the details of which are not 
permitted to " ears of flesh and blood." Whether 
present or absent, we are continually reminded of 
this perturbed Spirit. When on the stage, *^ it 
harrows us with fear and wonder ;" and when ab- 
sent, we see it in it's influence on the persons of 
the Drama, especially Hamlet. The sensations of 
horror and revenge which at first possess the mind 
of this Prince ; then his tardiness and irresolu- 
tion, which are chided by the re-appearance of the 
Spectre ; and his fears, notwithstanding all the 
evidence to the contrary, that it may be an evil 
Spirit, which, — 

'* Out of hi3 weakness and his melancholy, 
Abuses him to damn him," 

form one of the most affecting and interesting 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 307 

pictures in the whole raage of Shakspeare's 
dramas. 

The Spirits of the murdered victims of the 
usurper RicJiard, are also admirably introduced ; 
but they do not occupy so prominent a station in 
the Drama as the Ghost in ** Hamlet. '' The ap- 
parition of Julius Ccesar in the tent of BrututSf is 
a brief but awful visitation, and the mind of the 
spectator is finely prepared for it by the unnatural 
drowsiness which possesses all the attendants. 

The Ghost of Banquo exists only in the dis- 
ordered mind of Macbeth ; and we think that the 
effect would be prodigiously increased if the ma- 
nagers would listen to the opinions of the best 
critics, and forbear to present it before our visual 
organs. But what shall we say of the Weird 
Sisters, and of their unutterable occupation ? 

" How now, ye secret, black, and midnight hags, 
What is't ye do ? '' 

" A deed without a name ! " 

This is the true sublime ; it is composed of the 
essential elements of sublimity ; and the most 
highly-wrought description of their employment 
would produce an effect infinitely inferior to the 



308 ORIGINAL 

simple brevity of this reply. The mind wanders 
into the pathless field of horrible imaginings. From 
the moment that Macbeth encounters them on the 
blasted heath, he is impelled along his inevitable 
path by their spells. His mind is troubled with 
" thick-coming fancies ; " his " face is a book 
where men may read strange matters ;" — *^ Things 
bad begun, make strong themselves by ill:" until 
at length, he is 

*' in blood 
Stept in so far, that, should he wade no more, 
Returning were as tedious as go o'er ! " 

and his unearthly tempters complete their horrid 
task, and gain their prey. 

The Fairies in ** yl Midsummer Nighfs Dream'* 
are of a nature as essentially and distinctly different 
as celestial from infernal ; or light from darkness. 
Even '' that shrewd and knavish Sprite " Puck, is 
but mischievous only, not wicl^d ; and Oheron, 
and Titania, and all their elfish troop are un- 
tainted with any fiendish attributes, and almost 
without any touches of mortality. The *' delicate 
ArieV^ is another still-varying creation of the same 
gifted pencil ; made still more eff*ective by it's 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 309 

contrast with the monster Caliban; " that thing of 
darkness," — " as disproportioned in his manners, 
as in his shape :" — 

" Whose mother was a V/itch ; and one so strong 
That could control the Moon, make ebbs and flows ; 
And deal in her command, without her power." 

But to do ample justice to all the Supernatural 
characters of Shakspeare, would demand a Volume, 
not an Essay; and however frequently we may 
have perused the magic page which ** gives these 
airy nothings a local habitation and a name," it is 
still untiring, and still new. And though the all- 
potent art which gave it life, and breath, and being, 
is extinct ; though the charm be broken, and the 
power lost ; yet still, — 

*' Our mighty Bard's victorious lays 
Fill the loud voice of universal praise ; 
And baffled Spite, with hopeless anguish dumb, 
Yields to Renown the centuries to come ! " 



310 ORIGINAL 



A NIGHT AT THE MERMAID. 

AN OLD ENGLISH TALE. 



'* *TlS a dismal shower, good miae Host, and the 
night is black as Erebus ; my steed, too, is as ili 
conditioned as I am, without some slight respite 
to his labour, to travel as far as Whitehall, whi- 
ther my affairs call me. So that were your Hostelry 
as full of guests as London town is of sign boards, 
you must e'en find room to afford me shelter for 
an hour or two.'* 

" In troth, Master," replied the Host, ** ye have 
chosen a naughty night to travel in. But i'faith ! 
my private chambers are all occupied by constant 
guests ; and my public room is filled by a set of 
gallants, who choose this nigbt in every week to 
make merry at the sign of the Mermaid." 

" 'Tis wondrous hard, mine Host," returned the 
Stranger, " that a benighted traveller, and a loyal 
subject of her Majesty, should, in the centre of 
this ancient and hospitable City of London, and 
from so fair a Host as thou art, beg in vain for that 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 311 

favour which would be freely granted to him by a 
wanderer of the desert. May I crave of thee at 
least this courtesy, to commend me to those gal- 
lants, and say that a Kentish gentleman, whom 
nightfall and the tempest have driven here for 
shelter, begs to know if he may warm himself at 
the same fire with them, without detriment to 
their merriment ?" 

The Host stared the pertinacious Stranger in the 
face, while he slowly unbarred the Inn-gate : for, 
during this conversation, the traveller had ques- 
tioned on the outside, while the Host answered 
him through a small grating. *' They are not such 
churlish curs as to deny thee that," said the latter, 
** although they have Players, and Poets, and 
ue*er-do- wells of all sorts amongst them. They 
drink too, plenty of Sack and Rhenish ; and the 
silver comes at last, although sometimes it is over 
long in it's travels. No, no, they would not drive 
a night-foundered Stranger from the gates; and 
you, Sir, it is likely, will be wanting a flask of 
good wine to keep this raw night air from your 
stomach." 

** It is the very thing, mine host,*' said the 
Stranger, as the man of flagons and puncheons 
was helping him from his steed, in the Inn-yard, 
" which I was about to crave of thee. But first 



312 ORIGINAL 

bear my message to thy guests ; and I will await 
their answer in the hall." 

The Host, or, as we shall in future call him, 
Master Stephen Drawwell, disappeared at this 
bidding ; but soon returned with a message from 
his guests, to say that the Stranger was heartily 
welcome to their society. He then ushered him 
across a long corridor, and up a flight of steps into 
a spacious and lofty apartment where the gallants, 
of whom he had spoken, were assembled. A long 
table extended the whole length of the room, while 
an enormous wood fire blazed at each extremity. 
The floor was strewed with rushes ; a piece of 
state and luxury with which Master Drawwell orna- 
mented his common room on this night of the week 
only ; and wax tapers were placed on various parts 
of the table ; which was also plentifully furnished 
with flasks and cups, bearing generous liquors of 
every quality. 

The Stranger was kindly welcomed by the whole 
party, and was conducted to a seat at the right 
hand of the person who appeared to officiate as 
their President, or Chairman. A slight glance at 
the persons by whom he was surrounded, convinced 
him that he was in the company of no common men. 
They were, for the most part, plainly habited ; and 
many of them were now considerably under the 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 313 

influence of the purple deity, to whom they had 
been sacrifioing". But amidst the wild jollity and 
obstreperous mirth in which they indulged, he de- 
tected many brilliant sallies of wit ; the most caustic 
touches of satire ; and a profound acquaintance 
with the deepest mysteries of the human heart. 
After listening for some time with vacuity, and 
almost disgust, to a stale punster, he found him 
suddenly transformed into a man of brilliant genius ; 
a dull person near him, whom his potations, and 
too great an indulgence in that fragrant weed which 
had recently been imported from Virginia, seemed 
to have reduced to a state of listlessness, at the 
inspiring call of some kindred spirit, discovered 
himself to be an accomplished scholar, and an obser- 
vant and philosophical traveller ; whilst a third, 
after singing a stave of a dull and senseless Madrigal, 
became engaged in a discussion, which drew forth 
from him a display of knowledge and eloquence, 
at which Demosthenes himself would have sat down 
in despair. 

Such was the gifted but eccentric circle to which 
our Traveller found himself introduced. The Presi- 
dent, to whose peculiar care he was assigned, was a 
thickset, and rather clumsily built person, with a 
round burly face; a high forehead; and eyes, whose 
uncommon expression of keenness and intelligence 

P 



314 ORIGINAL 

was not impaired by the circumstance of one being 
considerably larger than the other. He seemed to 
be peculiarly well fitted for the jovial station which 
he occupied ; for, as the flasks passed round the ta- 
ble, he pulled from them as long, and as hearty a 
draught, as any of the company ; and, apparently, 
with less effect of ebriety than most of them. His 
conversational powers seemed of the highest order ; 
and the sly satire, the fine humour, and the po- 
lished wit, which escaped apparently unconsciously 
from his lips, kept the table in a roar during the 
whole of the evening. 

This vivacious Chairman soon found out that the 
Stranger had been in the army ; ** Ye have, doubt- 
less, then,'* he said, " fought against the Don, Sir, 
in the Netherlands?" 

** I have. Sir,*' replied the Stranger ; " in the 
Netherlands, and in America " 

** I had a scratch with him myself," said the 
Chairman; " when Lord Essex went over to Flan- 
ders, I was in good old Sir Thomas Stanton's 
Kegiment." 

** Indeed !" said the other, somewhat incredu- 
lously; ** and may I ask your name?" 

*' You may, and learn it too," replied the digni- 
tary of the Mermaid : ** 'tis Jonson." 

*' Jonson!" said the Stranger, who now felt con- 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 315 

vinced that he was either gravely imposed upon by 
the Chairman, or that the wags of the Hostelry 
were laughing at him in their sleeves ; *' 'tis 
strange, but I was well acquainted with every 
officer in that Regiment, and do not recollect that 
there was one of that name." 

" Officer!" shouted the other, and followed his 
shout with an obstreperous laugh ; ** No, no ; 
Fortune placed me in the ranks. 'Twas a boy's 
freak ; I thought that I should prefer handling a 
musket to a trowel, so I left the front of Lincoln's- 
inn-gateway for the palisadoes of Bruges.'* 

A light broke in upon the Stranger's mind, which 
instantly brightened over his face ; *' Can it be?" 
be said ; ** I have heard of this story before ; can 
you be the Poet, the Dramatist, Ben Jonson?" 

** Aye," exclaimed a dozen voices from all parts 
of the room, " who but Ben t rare Ben ! jovial 
Ben ! honest Ben ! immortal Ben !" and the 
mirth and conviviality were redoubled ; while the 
Stranger, who felt like one who has unconsciously 
intruded into the presence of superior beings, was 
by turns awed and delighted by the persons among 
whom he found himself. 

About the middle of the table was seated a 
person of a singularly saturnine and melancholy 
expression of countenance. His features, which 

p2 



316 ORIGINAL 

were somewhat of an Italian cast, indicated a fine 
intelligence, and a polished taste ; but still there 
was something about them which repelled the ad- 
vances of the most cordially disposed. He appeared 
considerably older than most of his companions ; 
but led by a similarity of tastes and occupations, 
to mingle in their society. They seemed to regard 
him with extraordinary deference and respect, and 
to listen with attention and even reverence to all 
that he uttered ; although every sentence which fell 
from his lips was imbued with the bitterest and 
most virulent personal satire. The praises and 
compliments which were heaped upon Jonson, in 
consequence of the Stranger's surprise, seemed 
greatly to discompose this personage. He listened 
to them in silence, and, after they had subsided, 
pursed his lips into a sardonic grin, while he ad- 
dressed the Chairman in these words : — 

*' Pray tell me, Ben, where does the mystery lurk ? 
What others call a Play, you call a Work /" 

The sting in this line consisted in the fact of 
.Jonson having lately published a volume of Plays, 
entitled " The Works of Benjamin Jonson ;" which 
term was then considered ridiculously arrogant and 
pompous, although it has since been commonly 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 317 

applied in the same sense. Some of the company 
were amused, but more were grieved, at this sally, 
as tending to damp their hilarity ; but no one seemed 
more disconcerted than the person who was the 
object of it. At length, however, a lame man, at 
the lower end of the room, exclaimed, while a 
good-humoured smile mantled over his features, 

^' The Author's friend, thus for the Author says, 

Ben's Plays are works, while others' Works are plays."*" 

The momentary damp which had hung upon the 
spirits of the company, was dispelled by this sally ; 
and one long loud peal of laughter and applause 
cleared away the gloom which had darkened round 
them. 

*' Thanks ! Uncle Willy !" said Jonson ; '* thanks, 
my sweet Swan of Avon ! A mad wag, my friend," 
he continued, addressing the Stranger; *' he com- 
menced his career with deer-stealing, and he has 
ever since continued the pilfering trade, by stealing 
away the hearts of all who know him." 



* As both these jeux d'esprit are anonymous, I have con- 
sidered myself privileged to appropriate them as 1 thought 
proper. 



318 ORIGINAL 

*^ Is it Shakspeare?" enquired the Stranger, in 
a tremulous tone. 

** 'Tis none but he/' returned Jonson; *' a 
kind youth, and a clever. He lacks the an- 
cient tongues though; and he doth take most 
irreverent liberties with the wise rules of the 
Stagyrite : yet he knows in some sort to tickle the 
popular ear ; and crowds will go to see his repre- 
sentation of a Shipwreck, although it be upon the 
coast of Bohemia, who do not comprehend a single 
one of the classical allusions in my Poetaster." 

*' Nay, nay, Ben/' said a keen-eyed,^ good- 
looking stripling by his side; *' thy Poetaster hath 
it's praise, but match it not with the immortal 
works of my Godfather." 

'* I cry you mercy, young Master Davenant !" 
said Jonson ; ** I knew not that thy quick ears were 
so close to my hasty tongue. But William, friend, 
have a care in future, when thou speakest of Master 
Shakspeare, that thou take not the name of God 
in vain." 

Jonson had now turned the laugh against his 
defender, who was supposed by many to be con- 
nected with Davenant much more closely than by the 
sponsorial tie. " But ne'er mind, Master Shak- 
speare," said Jonson, ** the lad is a proper person; 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 319 

and hath more wit in his pate than was ever inhe- 
rited from an Oxford tapster. But tell me, my 
heart of Warwickshire, when am I to carry thy 
little Judith to the baptismal font?" 

** Right speedily, Ben," answered Shakspeare; 
** and then we shall see what rare present thou 
wilt bestow upon her." 

" It shall be something," returned Jonson, 
** which it is fitting for a Poet and a Scholar to 
give ; one who hath the tongues, and is skilled in 
the lore of ancient Greece and Rome.'' 

" Give her some latten spoons," added Shak- 
speare ; ** and then, Ben, thou can'st translate them." 

** A murrain upon thy word-torturing wit, 
Willy," replied Jonson ; ** thou perverter of lan- 
guage, and destroyer of the simplicity of syllables ! 
But a truce to these wit-combats, as Master Fuller 
calleth them, and let us have a Catch. Here is 
Master Stephen Dowland just entering the room ; 
and, by my faith! Master Matthew Locke with 
him. A Song, Master Locke! a Song, and that 
right speedily ! " 

Locke, however, had no sooner joined the 
party than he engaged in close conversation with 
Shakspeare, without paying any attention to the 
call of the Chairman. They were conversing upon 
a subject deeply interesting not only to themselves, 



320 ORIGINAL 

but to all posterity, for it was on the time and 
manner of bringing out at the Globe Theatre, a 
Tragedy, which the latter had written, and parts 
of which the former had set to Music, under the 
title of '* Macbeth:' 

" He heeds me not. Master Dowland," said 
Jonson; " he and that Warwickshire carle are 
plotting some mischief, for their heads have never 
been under the same roof for the last six months, 
without coming into close contact." 



(Left unfinished,) 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 321 



THE TREKSCHUIT. 



It was in the Autumn of the year 1824, on my 
return to England from a tour along the Rhine, 
that I found myself for the second time in the city 
of Ghent ; and it was not without a feeling of very 
considerable interest and pleasure, that I revisited 
Flanders. I had seen most of the finest towns of 
Germany and France; but in picturesque and 
antique beauty, they were none of them to be 
compared with Antwerp ; Brussels, the old part of 
the town; Malines; Bruges; and, above all, Ghent. 
The magnificent and venerable Cathedrals ; the 
stately streets lined with Palaces, once the resi- 
dences of the nobility of Flanders and Burgundy ; 
although now, alas ! let out into tenements, and 
the ground floors occupied by petty tradesmen ; 
the Museums so richly adorned with the works of 
native Artists ; and the sad and melancholy solitude 
of those once thickly populated thoroughfares, 
which nevertheless, retained, I thought, a solemn 
beauty about them ; made a deep impression on 

p3 



^22 ORIGINAL 

my mind. I will, however, deal candidly with my 
Readers ; and confess to them, that ideas of a 
grosser, and less intellectual, character, mingled 
with my reveries, as I approached Ghent. I had 
been riding all day ; it was long after sunset ; and 
I thought of the Hotel des Pays Bas, and of the 
good cheer with which M. Doublet, the worthy 
Host, used to spread his table at the patriarchal 
Supper hour of nine. Although the viands were 
always excellent, and the wines of the most tempt- 
ing quality, M. Doublet's hours at first puzzled 
me not a little. Dinner at one, and Supper at 
nine, were such plebeian meals, that I should have 
blushed to the very throat, had certain of my ac- 
quaintances detected me in the commission of such 
enormities. However, I recollected that if I chose 
to christen the first repast. Luncheon, and the 
second, Dinner, I should be sufiiciently near to the 
hours set apart for such affairs in London ; where, 
as is well known, it is the height of fashion to go 
without Dinner, and take a hot Supper. 

I arrived in Ghent just in time to allow my phy- 
sical organs to participate in the meal, with which 
I had been for some time past regaling my fancy, 
I sat down amidst a party of ten or twelve, and 
was received with that courtesy and cordiality, 
which, whatever John Bull may think of his own 



TALES, POEMS, ETC, 323 

hospitality, a stranger never meets with in such 
perfection, as on the Continental side of the Chan- 
nel. 

" Monsieur is going to make some stay in this 
town ?" said the person, who had been most assi- 
duous in loading my plate with the best of every 
thing. 

** No," I replied; "I have already seen all 
that is most interesting in Ghent, and purpose 
starting for Ostend in the morning, by the Trek- 
schuit." 

" C'est hien heureuxy* answered the Abbe^ for 
such he was ; " that is very lucky, as we are all 
bent on the same expedition. There are eleven of 
us ; we have hired the little Trekschuit — La Ville 
de Bruges J — for ourselves; and there is just accom- 
modation for another passenger. If Monsieur will 
join us, I think I shall do no more than speak the 
sense of all, when I say that we shall be proud of 
his company.'* 

The Abbe's proposition was instantly and unani- 
mously carried ; and as I was travelling alone, I 
did not hesitate to accede to it. 

'^ Monsieur however," said a young gentleman 
with dark hair, and a pale face, who sat opposite 
to me, ** should be made acquainted with the 
terms by which our party is bound together. If 



324 ORIGINAL 

he has ever sailed, or rather been towed, in the 
Trekschuit before," — I nodded an assent, — '* he 
cannot have forgotten that, however pleasant he 
found the journey at first, the noiseless monotonous 
progress of the boat, and the flat and unvaried 
character of the scenery, oppressed him with in- 
sufferable weariness and ennui, long before he 
arrived at his destination.'' 

" Of a surety," I replied, *' I have not for- 
gotten it; for my last journey from Ostend to 
Brussels, will long be remembered ; though, at 
first, the Trekschuit pleased me well enough. 
Having been tossed about all the day before in a 
Steam boat^ on the German Ocean, without being 
quite sure that I should not make up my final bed 
there ; and the three things in the world, which, if 
I have any choice, I like least, being sea-sickness, 
explosion, and drowning, — I cannot decide which 
is the worst, — the Trekschuit appeared to me a very 
quiet and secure conveyance. But the day wore 
on, and there being still nothing to be seen, but 
the same straight banks of the Canal ; the same 
plantations of cabbages and onions on each side of 
it ; and the same dull taciturn crew, whose wits, if 
they had any, seemed spell-bound by the genius of 
the place; I even wished myself again beating 
backwards and forwards off" the Foreland. If 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. " 325 

then, ye have any device for mitigating the tedium 
of to-morrow's journey, there is no one will co- 
operate with you, more willingly than I shall." 

" Then it is even this expedient," said my pale- 
faced companion, " which has been proposed by 
our reverend friend the Abbe, that each should 
narrate a tale for the entertainment of the com- 
pany. This, with a plentiful supply of Rhenish 
and cigars ; and such a dinner, to divide the morn- 
ing from the evening, as even M. Doublet would 
not blush to lay before us, will perhaps make the 
Trekschuit to-morrow, a residence at least as 
agreeable as the Hotel d'Angleterre at Boulogne." 

As the allusion to the Debtors' prison, which is 
thus designated, at Boulogne, on account of the 
number of our countrymen who do it the honour 
to take up their residence there, was intended to 
raise a laugh at my expense, in which it was suc- 
cessful, I readily promised also to assist in the 
plan of amusement proposed, and then applied 
myself with becoming alacrity to the completion 
of my meal. 

An early hour the next morning saw us on the 
deck of La Yille de Bruges. As the Reader is to 
accompany us in our progress down the Canals, 
and as ** all our tediousness" is 'specially reserved 
for him, I think that it will be only seemly and 



B26 ORIGINAL 

decorous if I introduce him to our party. First 
then there is Myself ;—'*^c?e/^ce^, myself," as Sir 
Hugh Evans would say, — a beardless, briefless 
Barrister;- — 

" One foredoomed his Father's soul to cross, 
And pen a St-anza when he should engross." 

I was ambitious to surmount my wig with a wreath 
of laurel ; to introduce the nine Muses to the 
twelve Judges; to invest Apollo with a silk gown ; 
and harness Pegasus to the Chief Justice's car- 
riage. But I unfortunately found, that the two 
occupations did not harmonise, and I made all 
kinds of ridiculous blunders. I sent an Attorney 
a Volume of Poems with the Author's compliments ; 
and despatched the case and opinion, which should 
have filled their place, to the Editor of the^** New 
Monthly,'* requesting an early and favourable 
Review ; the consequence of which was, that the 
Attorney sent me no more Briefs, and the next 
New Monthly contained some mighty pleasant 
verses, — to all but the subject of them, — entitled 
*' F«r5e-atility of Talent at the Bar." I had re- 
solved to spend my long vacation on the Continent 
this year, for the purpose of viewing foreign 
Courts of Law, and getting some insight into the 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 827 

jurisprudence of other countries ; and after atten- 
tively studying the works of Rubens and Vandyke, 
seeing how Judges and Barristers looked at the 
Theatres, and Spiel-houses; and pondering deeply 
on those abstruse legal questions which were sug- 
gested by the scenery on the banks of the Rhine ; 
having accomplished all these desiderata, I was 
now on my return to Westminster-hall, with a 
wonderful acquisition of juridical knowledge in my 
cranium. 

Next to me sat the Abbe; a jovial, rubicond, 
good-humoured, Priest, who was travelling on the 
affairs of the Church to Ostend ; and as he was 
portly and well fed, and the weather intensely hot, 
the good father was in " a continual dissolution 
and thaw" throughout the journey. As I gazed in 
his face, and saw the whole huge mass of flesh, 
of which his person was composed, resolving itself 
into water, I began, good Protestant as I am, to 
have some faith in the doctrine of transubstantiation. 
He was a lively and merry, but withal, discreetly- 
conducted personage ; evidently a man of learning 
and considerable talent ; and one of the members 
of our little society with whom we would have least 
willingly parted. 

The pale-faced youth, whom I have already 
mentioned, was a young Artist from Antwerp, on 



328 ORIGINAL 

his way to London. He was tall and handsome; 
but a close and unwearied enthusiasm in his appli- 
cation to his art, had evidently impaired his health. 
I soon entered into conversation with him, and 
found that he had travelled in Greece and Italy; 
had once visited Paris, solely with a view of going 
through the Louvre ; and was now journeying to 
London, for the purpose of studying from the 
the Elgin Marbles. His great townsman Rubens 
was the god of his idolatry ; whenever his merits 
formed the subject of conversation, his eye would 
kindle with unusual light, and his whole frame 
seemed animated by some extraordinary impulse. 
It is true, that he was apt to be a little intolerant 
of those who ventured to differ with him on this 
subject ; but this is a fault with which I fear that 
we are most of us chargeable, when our favourite 
topic is undergoing discussion. 

Opposite to me sat an Officer in the Prussian 
service, who had distinguished himself in the last 
campaign in Flanders ; and was now conducting 
his Lady, the only female in our party, over the 
scenes of his former exploits. He had taken her 
to view the fields of Waterloo and Ligny, and the 
ramparts of Antwerp ; and he was now about to 
inspect the fortifications of Ostend. He had 
proved himself a good Soldier, and was withal a 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 329 

man of strong sense, but not uninfected with strong 
prejudices. He bated tbe Frencb ; believed that 
Prussia was the greatest, grandest, and most 
glorious kingdom in the world; and maintained 
that the battle of Waterloo was won by Blucher. 
He did not seem very fond of Cathohcs, and at 
first eyed the Abbe somewhat askance ; but the 
good humour and lively manners of the Priest 
speedily triumphed over the reserve of the Ger- 
man, and before we had proceeded far on our 
journey, they were seated side by side, and were 
partaking very cordially of the contents of the 
same snuff-box. 



The preceding Fragment, which thus is abruptly terminated 
in the MS., was originally intended to have had a second title, 
and to have been called, either " The Decameron of the Canals" 
or, " Tales told in Flanders;" and to have introduced about a 
dozen different narratives : several of which are contained in 
the present Volume, and the remainder are included in Mr. 
Neele's last work, the " Romance of History." — Editor, 



330 ORIGINAL 



HYMNS FOR CHILDREN 



I. 

Oh thou ! who sitt'st enthroned on high, 
Ancient of Days ! Eternal King I 

May Childhood and mortality 

Hope thou wilt listen whilst they sing ! 

We raise our Songs, but, Oh ! to Thee, 
What praise can mortal tongue impart ; 

Till thou hast tuned to harmony, 

That jarring instrument, the Heart ? 

Then, Infant warblings in thine ear. 
As sweet as Angel notes shall roll ; 

For thou wilt bend from Heaven to hear 
The still, soft music of the Soul. 

Oh ! teach us some celestial Song, 
Some note of high and holy joy ; 

And that shall dwell upon the tongue, 
And that shall all our Souls employ. 

Then, Time shall hear, while Time is ours, 
The Song of praise we pour to Thee ; 

And Heaven shall lend us nobler powers 
To sound it through Eternity ! 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 881 



II. 



Oh Thou ! who mak'st the Sun to rise, 
Beam on my Soul, illume mine eyes, 

And guide me through this world of care 
The wandering atom thou can'st see, 
The falling Sparrow's mark'd by thee, 
Then, turning Mercy's ear to me, 
Listen ! Listen ! 

Listen to an Infant's prayer ! 

Oh Thou ! whose blood was spilt to save 
Man's nature from a second grave ; 

To share in whose redeeming care. 
Want's lowliest child is not too mean, 
Guilt's darkest victim too unclean. 
Oh ! thou wilt deign from Heaven to lean. 
And listen, listen, 

Listen to an Infant's prayer. 

Oh Thou ! who wilt from Monarchs part, 
To dwell within the contrite heart, 

And build thyself a Temple there ; 
O'er all my dull affections move, 
Fill all my Soul with Heav'nly love, 
And, kindly stooping from above, 
Listen ! Listen ! 

Listen to an Infant's prayer ! 



332 ORIGINAL 



III. 



God of Mercy! throned on high, 

Listen from Thy lofty seat : 
Hear, Oh ! hear our feeble cry, 

Guide, Oh ! guide our wandering feet. 

Young and erring Travellers, we 
All our dangers do not know ; 

Scarcely fear the stormy sea, 
Hardly feel the tempest blow. 

While our bosoms yet are young, 
Kindle in them Love divine ; 

Ere the tide of sin grow strong. 

Take us, keep us, make us. Thine ! 

When perplex'd in danger's snare. 
Thou alone our guide can'st be : 

When oppressed with deepest care, 
Whom have we to trust ^ut Thee ? 

Lord ! instruct us then, and pour 
Hope and Love on every Soul ; 

Hope, till Time shall be no more, 
Love, while endless ages roll. 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 33S 



IV. 



Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth. 
Ecclesiastes, Chapter 12, v. 1. 

Remember Him, for He is great, 
And winds and waves obey his will : 

The surges, awed by Him, abate, 
And tempests at his voice are still. 

Remember Him, for He is wise, 
To mark our actions every day ; 

To know what thoughts within us rise, 
And notice every word we say. 

Remember Him, for He is good, 
He sent his Son to die for Sin ; 

And the rich ocean of his blood. 
Can cleanse and purify within. 

Remember Him, for He is kind. 
And will not frown the poor away ; 

He heals the rich, restores the blind, 
And listens when the humblest pray. 

Remember Him, before the days 
Of evil come, and joy is dim ; 

While Time is yours, repeat his praise, 
While Life remains, remember Him ! 



834 ORIGINAL 

EPITAPHS. 
I. 

A Saint, a Wife, a Mother slumbers here, 
To Heaven, to Husband, and to Children dear; 
But Heaven, to which her chiefest thoughts were prone, 
Too early claimed, and made her all it's own. 
Three infant pledges of pure love she left, 
Unconscious they of how much good bereft ; 
Their tears may well be spared, they need not fall, 
There's one whose heart hoards grief enough for all ; 
Who, but for them, as he bends o'er this stone, 
Would long to make her peaceful grave his own. 



II. 



Goodnight! Goodnight, sweet Spirit! thou hast cast 

Thy bonds of clay away from thee at last; 

Broken the earthly fetters, which alone 

Held thee at distance from thy Maker's Throne ; 

But Oh ! those fetters to th' immortal mind. 

Were links of love to those thou'st left behind. 

For thee we mourn not ; as th' Apostle prest 

His dungeon pillow, till the Angel-guest 

Drew nigh, and when the light that round him shone, 

Beam'd on the prisoner, his bonds were gone : 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 335 

So wert thou subject to disease and pain ; 
Till Death, the brightest of th' angelic train, 
Pour'd Heaven's own radiance, by divine decree, 
Around thy suffering Soul, and it was free ! 



SONNET. 

On reading the Remains of the late Henry Kirke White.- 

Yes, all is o*er ! the pangs which Nature felt, 

Have thus subsided into dread repose; 

The feelings Genius only gives, and knows, 
Nor soothe, nor sadden now ; nor fire, nor melt ; 
How sadly and how soon Death's weltering wave 

Closed o'er his honour'd head. Too lovely Rose, 

Why in such open brilliancy disclose 
Those buds condemn'd such cruel blight to brave ? 

Was Genius', Virtue's, Learning's power too small 
To snatch their votary from the silent grave ? 

Ah me ! we toil through life, until the call 
Of Death arrests us, impotent to save ; 

The great, the good, the wise around us fall, 

While Vice and Folly live, proud arbiters of all. 



336 ORIGINAL ; 

FRIENDSHIP. 

From the French. j 

" Friendship ! to thee I raise my voice, 

Love cannot equal thee ; i 

Thou art the object of my choice, 1 

Oh ! come and comfort me ! ] 

Thou, like the roseate break of day, | 

Shinest, but dost not burn ; ' 
Peace dwells with thee, and 'neath thy sway, 

True happiness we learn." j 

\ 
'Twas thus, when fifteen Springs their braids 

Had woven, Laura spake ; \ 

The gentle error of fair maids, J 

When their first vows they make. J 

Unto her Idol then she raised ■ 

A Temple, rich and rare ; 1 

And, night and day, bright cressets blazed, : 

And odours rich burn'd there. 

Only his features to express : 

A Statue was required ; j 

Had the Arts reach'd such perfectness, i 

T' achieve the work desired. < 

A master-piece of Art to choose, I 

To Phidias quick she went ; 

All grandeur's forms, and beauty's hues, ! 

Must in that form be blent. ' 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 337 

The Artist Friendship's statue shew'd: 

How unHke what she sought ! 
Simple, severe, of antique mode, 

With no soft graces fraught. 
** This is not he !" she cried, " I spurn 

Your false and peevish art ; 
Would you from a true model learn, 

Behold him in my heart I 

" There, stretch'd upon a bed of down, 
Slumbers a lovely child ; 
Behold the master whom I own, 
And serve ! " she said, and smiled : 
" Ah !" said the Artist, " Beauty must 
That tyrant's vassal prove ; 
You come to me for Friendship's bust, 
And bid me copy Love ! " 



LOVE AND BEAUTY. 

A Fraament. 



Oh Love ! triumphant Love ! thy throne is built 
Where tempests cannot shake it, or rude force 
Tear up it's strong foundations. In the heart 
Thy dwelling is, and there thy potent spell 

Q 



338 ORIGINAL 

Turns it*s dark chambers into Palaces. 

Thy power is boundless ; and o'er all creation 

Works it's miracles. So Pygmalion once 

Woke the cold statue on it's pedestal, 

To life and rapture. So the rugged soul, 

Hard as the rifted rock, becomes the slave, 

The feeblest slave of Love; and, like the pearl 

In Cleopatra's goblet, seems to melt 

On Beauty's lips. So, when Apelles gazed 

Upon Campaspe's eyes, her peerless image, 

Instead of glowing on his canvass, bright 

In all it's beauty, stole into his heart, 

And mock'd his feeble pencil. 



Love in the soul, not bold and confident, 

But, like Aurora, trembles into being ; 

And with faint flickering, and uncertain beams, 

Gives notice to th* awakening world within us, 

Of the full blazing orb that soon shall rise, 

And kindle all it's passions. Then begin 

Sorrow and joy : unutterable joy. 

And rapturous sorrow. Then the world is nothing ; 

Pleasure is nothing ; suffering is nothing ; 

Ambition, riches, praise, power, all are nothing ; 

Love rules and reigns despotic and alone. 

Then, Oh ! the shape of magic loveliness. 

He conjures up before us. In her form 



TALES, POEMS, ETC. 339 

Is perfect symmetry. Her swan-like gait, 
As she glides by us, like a lovely dream, 
Seems not of earth. From her bright eye the soul 
Looks out ; and, like the topmost gem o' the heap, 
Shews the Mine's wealth within. Upon her face, 
As on a lovely landscape, shade and sunlight 
Play as strong feeling sways : now her eye flashes 
A beam of rapture ; now, lets drop a tear ; 
And now, upon her brow — as when the Rainbow 
Rears it's fair arch in Heaven, — Peace sits, and gilds 
The sweet drops as they fall. The soul of mind 
Dwells in her voice, and her soft, spiritual tones 
Sink in the heart, soothing it's cares away ; 
As Halcyons brood upon the troubled wave, 
And charm it into calmness. When she weeps, 
Her tears are like the waters upon which 
Love's mother ro^e to Heaven. E'en her sighs, 
Although they speak the troubles of her soul. 
Breathe of it's sweetness ; as the wind that shakes 
The Cedar's boughs, becomes impregnated 
With it's celestial odours. 



q8 



340 ORIGINAL 



A THOUGHT. 



The shadow we pursue still flees us, 
Fast pacing as we faster pace : 

That which we flee from will not ease us. 
By pausing in the fearful race. 

Thus, Pleasure, vainly we implore thee 
To stay thy flight, and longer bloom; 

And thus, Oh Death ! we flee before thee, 
But only flee into the tomb ! 



EPIGRAM. 

To a Great Beauty. 



Believe me, my corpulent Fair, 

I love your fat cheeks and full face ; 

Oh my heart ! your eyes kindle love there, 
And I sink in your melting embrace. 

The poor buzzing fly does the same, 
While yet inexperienced and callow : 

First, burns his bright wings in the flame. 
And then,— tumbles into the tallow ! 



MISCELLANEOUS 
PROSE AND POETRY 

ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN VARIOUS PERIODICAL 

PUBLICATIONS, AND NEVER BEFORE 

COLLECTED. 



Miss Vortex. A charming Nosegay! All exotics, I declare! 

Jessy. No, Madam, neglected wild-flowers; I took them 
from their bed of weeds, bestowed care on their culture, and 
by transplanting them to a more genial soil, they have flou- 
rished with luxuriant strength and beauty. 

Miss Vortex. A pretty amusement ! 

Jessy. And it seemed, Madam, to convey this lesson: not 
to despise the lowly mind, but rather, with fostering hand, to 
draw it from it's chill obscurity, that, like these humble flowers, 
it might grow rich in worth and native energy/' 

Morton's ** Cure for the Heart-Ache." 



THE VALLEY OF SERVOZ. 

A SAVOYARD TALE. 

Servoz ! sweet Servoz ! there is not a Vale 
On Earth's green bosom nursed, so beautiful 
As thou ! How lovely yon cerulean sky 
Glittering with blue and gold, and all the charms 
It canopies. The purple vines which feed 
On thy rich veins ; the flowers whose fragrant breath 
Satiate the sense with sweetness ; the tall groves 
With their eternal whisperings in thine ear. 
Of blessedness and joy ; thy guardian fence 
Of hills which o'er thee rise, Alp over Alp, 
As though each peer'd above his fellow, anxious 
To snatch a glance at thee ; and sweeter still, 
Thy Vale's deep quiet, which no sound disturbs. 
Save the sweet brawling of the silver Arve ; 
The wild bee's hum ; the grasshopper's shrill note ; 
And distant tinklings mingled with the lay 
Which the swarth peasant o'er the furrow chaunts, 
Echoed by village maids. But most I love 
Thy Churchyard's grassy precincts : in such spots. 
While the foot rambles, the soul treasures up 
Truth's holiest lessons; and as the green-sward 
Springs freshest over graves, so there the heart 
Brings forth it's kindliest feelings, and distils 
Dews precious as the drops which fall from heaven. 

Henry Neele. 

It was in the Summer of the year 1820 that, at 
the close of a fine July day, I found myself, for 



344 MISCELLANEOUS 

the first time, in the village of Servoz. This is a 
beautiful, quiet group of cottages, deposited, if I 
may use the term, in the bosom of the Valley from 
which it takes it's name, in one of the most ro- 
mantic and secluded parts of Savoy. It is impos- 
sible for language to do justice to the delightful 
and varied scenery which surrounds it. That pe- 
culiar characteristic of Alpine views, the union of 
wildness with fertility, is here exhibited in a sur- 
prising degree. The Valley seems absolutely sa- 
turated with the sweetness and the fecundity of 
Nature. Flowers of the most brilliant hues and 
enchanting fragrance, and fruits of the most deli- 
cious flavour, abound in every part; in the middle 
is seen the river Arve, in some places leaping and 
foaming over the rocks by which it's course is im- 
peded, and in others quietly watering the Valley. 
All around rise gigantic hills, the bases of which 
are clothed with vines ; whilst midway extend 
enormous forests, and on their summits is a 
mantle of everlasting snow. At the time at which 
I was entering the Village, the whole scene was 
surmounted by a clear, blue sky, of whose glorious 
tints those who have never travelled out of Eng- 
land cannot have the faintest conception ; and the 
setting Sun had thrown it's own radiant hues upon 
Mont Blanc ; whose summit, even while I gazed 
upon it, became suddenly changed from a briUiant 



PROSE AND POETRY. 345 

white to a gorgeous red, and ** Sun-set, " as Lord 
Byron expresses it, '* into rose-hues saw it wrought." 
This gradually faded away, exhibiting, as the Sun 
declined, the most exquisite variety of colour, 
until the brilliant white, which can be compared to 
nothing so well as to molten silver, resumed it's 
original dominion. 

There is much truth in the maxim of Rousseau, 
that " On s'exerce a voir comme a sentir, ou 
plutot une vue exquise n'est qu'un sentiment de- 
licat et fin." Certainly, the same scenes excite 
very different emotions in different minds; and 
even in the same mind at different moments. Be 
this as it may, at the time of which I am writing, I 
felt as fully persuaded as ever Sterne did, that I 
had a Soul ; and, like him, could have defied all 
the materialists in the world to persuade me to the 
contrary. On arriving at such a place, the first 
objects of my research are the Village Inn, and 
the Church-yard ; for from those places I gather 
the history of the spot, and get an insight into the 
minds and manners of the inhabitants. I see 
them in the house of mirth, and in the house of 
mourning ; I mix with them in the pleasures, and 
in the business of life ; and I learn how they sup- 
port the intrusions of death, and what are their 
hopes beyond the regions of mortality. On this 

q3 



346 MISCELLANEOUS 

occasion, not finding much to interest me at the 
Inn, I merely took some slight refreshment, and, 
disencumbering myself from the staff and wallet 
with which I had performed my journey, pro- 
ceeded to take a ramble among the tombs. They 
were many and interesting. Here rested the Pa- 
triarch of the Village, gathered full of years and 
honours to his fathers. There, a modest stone 
told a simple but melancholy tale of an unfortunate 
Traveller engulphed in a glacier, as he was travel- 
ling these lonely, but dangerous, regions without 
a guide. Here the Soldier rested from the battle, 
and the Chamois-hunter from the chase. The gay 
ceased to smile, and the unhappy forgot to weep ; 
Death garnered up his harvest here, and methought 
that there was among it food that might be whole- 
some and invigorating for the mind. 

Amongst those memorials of the dead, there was 
one by which I found my steps irresistibly arrested : 
this was a heap of turf, surrounded by beds of 
flowers. It was undistinguished by any stone; 
but a wooden cross, of the rudest workmanship, 
was raised upon it, on which hung a chaplet of 
lilies. The cross was evidently some years old, 
but the lilies were fresh gathered, and blooming ; 
and some young girls were watering the flower- 
beds which surrounded the grave. From them, and 



PROSE AND POETRY. 347 

from others of the neighbours, I gathered the his- 
tory of this tomb. It was a simple tale : but I 
have seen tears raining plenteously at it's recital, 
from some of the brightest eyes which ever bor- 
rowed from southern suns their lustre, and their 
warmth ; and big drops roll down the faded cheeks 
of age like juices forced from fruits which seemed 
withering upon their stalks. 

If the rustic annalists of the Valley of Servoz 
may be credited, there never moved upon tht^ 
earth a being more exquisitely beautiful than 
Annette de la Cluse. Her form was tall, and 
moulded to the finest symmetry ; her eyes black and 
sparkling ; and her hair of the same colour, and 
almost of the same brightness. Some of the rural 
connoisseurs of the Village considered her face too 
pale : as it has been described to me, it must have 
been beautifully fair ; but the sun of that climate, 
which usually marks the daughters of the Valley 
for his own, had so slightly tinged her cheeks with 
the rose, that it was only in moments of extraor- 
dinary animation and feeling that it was percep- 
tible ; and during the last year of her life it 
entirely vanished. Her disposition was pensive, 
but far from gloomy ; and during the little Village 
festivals, with which the Romish Calendars abound, 
a more gay and hearty laugh was seldom heard 



348 MISCELLANEOUS 

than Annette's. Still, she loved solitude and 
seclusion; and although Literature had not at 
that time unfolded it's treasures to the Valley, yet 
her mind appeared to be informed by the beauty 
and sublimity of the scenes which surrounded her;, 
and she — 

" Found tongues in trees, books in the running brooks. 
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing." 

To these qualities were added, a sweetness and 
kindness of heart which endeared her to every 
one, and which continues to keep her memory 
piously cherished to the present moment. 

With such attractions it is not to be wondered 
at, that by the time that Annette had attained her 
seventeenth year her admirers should be nume- 
rous. Her course of studies not having included 
the science of coquetry, it was not long before she 
avowed that her affections were fixed upon Victor 
de St. Foix ; and those worthy neighbours, who 
there, as in more polished districts, kindly took 
upon themselves the office of deciding upon the 
fitness of the match, were unanimous in their 
approval of her choice. Victor was Annette's 
senior by only a few months, and his taste and 
habits were, in most particulars, congenial with 



PROSE AND POETRY. 349 

her own. It is true that he possessed the more 
masculine habits of enterprise and intrepedity : 
none could track the Chamois to his haunt among 
the Alps with a keener eye, and a surer foot ; and 
in leaping from rock to rock, he was rivalled only 
by the mountain rivulet. The Traveller who en- 
quired for a hardy and intelligent guide was always 
recommended to Victor; and when circumstances 
of danger or diflSculty occasioned the Villagers to 
rally together, he was invariably among the fore- 
most, and frequently filled the post of chieftain. 
Still his heart found room for the softer emotions, 
and when at evening he stole to Annette*s side to 
tell hersome melancholy tale of the Traveller over- 
whelmed by the avalanche, or lost among the tor- 
rents ; or, when he warbled, in unison with her, 
some of those sweet Savoyard melodies which are 
often heard among the Vallies, the tears would 
rush into his eyes, and the hardy mountaineer 
seemed metaphosed into a ** soft carpet Knight." 
One Song which they used to sing most frequently 
together, and which the Villagers have distinguished 
by their names, I transcribe as it was recited to 
me by the Host of my Inn. The words of the ori- 
ginal, when accompanied by the simple and beau- 
tiful melody to which they are sung, are irresistibly 
touching and affecting. The following version 



350 MISCELLANEOUS 

sinks infinitely below it's prototype, but I have 
endeavoured to preserve the sentiment : — 



** For thee, Love ! for tliee, Love ! 

I'll brave Fate's sternest storm ; 
She cannot daunt, or chill the hearts 

Which Love keeps bold and vrarm : 
And when her clouds are blackest, nought 

But thy sweet self I'll see ; 
Nor hear amidst the tempest aught, 

But thee, Love I only thee ! 

For thee. Love ! for thee, Love ! 

My fond heart would resign 
The brightest cup that Pleasure fills, 

And Fortune's wealthiest mine ; 
For Pleasure's smiles are vanity, 

And Fortune's fade or flee ; 
There's purity and constancy 

In thee, Love ! only thee I 

For thee, Love ! for thee. Love ! 

Life's lowly vale I'll tread. 
And aid thy steps the journey tlirough. 

Nor quit thee till I'm dead : 
And even then, round her I love, 

My shade shall hovering be ; 
And warble notes from Heaven above, 

To thee. Love ! only thee ! " 

In this manner they passed the morning of their 



PROSE AND POETRY. 351 

lives, nntil the day arrived which had been fixed 
upon for their union. In such a place as Servoz 
this was an incident of considerable interest and 
importance ; and almost the whole population of 
the Village, young and old^ contributed to swell 
the retinue, which proceeded with decorous hilarity 
towards the simple, but venerable, Church of St. 
Pierre. A troop of young girls advanced first, 
strewing flowers in the path of the joyous proces- 
sion ; these were succeeded by some youthful pea- 
sants of the other sex, who filled the air with rus- 
tic, but by no means tasteless. Music ; the Bride 
followed, ** blushing like the morning," supported 
on her right by her aged Mother, and on her left 
by the Bridegroom ; their relatives and intimate 
friends came next, and a numerous party of pea- 
santry brought up the rear. 

This was on one of those bright Summer morn- 
ings, the splendours of which the inhabitants of 
more northern climates never behold, even in 
imagination. It was the hushed and breathless 
hour of noon, and all nature seemed reposing 
from the meridian heat, except the bridal party, 
who were protected from it by the shadow cast by 
a gigantic Alp across their path. Suddenly a 
strange sound was heard above them, like the 
noise of an avalanche, and a quantity of stones 



352 MISCELLANEOUS 

and rock descended upon their heads, without, 
however, producing any serious consequences. 
They were, nevertheless, induced to quicken their 
steps, but before they had proceeded ten paces 
further, a tremendous explosion like an awful 
thunder-clap was heard. The enormous Alp under 
which they were walking was seen rocking to and 
fro, like an aspen tree shaken by the wind ; and 
before the whole of the party could escape beyond 
it's reach, it had precipitated itself into the Valley, 
and choked up a little lake which lay immediately 
under it's brow ; while huge blocks of granite were 
hurled about in all directions, and the dust pro- 
duced by rocks thus dashed violently against each 
other, concealed for awhile the extent of the ca- 
lamity. Annette had instinctively caught her Mo- 
ther's hand, and hurried her beyond the reach of 
danger; but when the party had arrived at a place 
of safety, and the tremendous convulsion of nature 
had subsided, the wailings of distress at seeing 
their habitatinos crushed, and their fields and vine- 
yards laid desolate, were many ; though more were 
the exclamations of joy at beholding that their 
children and friends had escaped unhurt. On a 
sudden a heart-rending shriek was heard, followed 
by a fearful cry of *' Where is Victor?" From 
Annette those sounds proceeded, who, as the 



PROSE AND POETRY. 353 

cloud of dust disappeared, had cast a hasty glance 
around, and perceived, among the groups who 
were felicitating each other on their escape, all but 
Victor ! Instantly the whole party was in motion ; 
the cloak, the hat, and some of the bridal orna- 
ments of Victor were found, while some mangled 
rehques of his corpse told too soon, and too cer- 
tainly, his miserable fate. 

Annette, who followed as fast as her failing 
limbs would allow her, heard their exclamations of 
despair, and sank senseless upon the earth. Every 
effort that kindness and pity could suggest was 
used to recover her, but for months they could 
scarcely be said to restore her suspended anima- 
tion ; for the state of listless inanity in which she 
remained was much more nearly alUed to death 
than life. At length, however, she regained the 
use of her corporeal powers ; but, alas ! her mind 
had wandered from it's dweUing. She would often, 
after remaining inactive for hours together, hurry 
suddenly to the Church, and there, standing before 
the altar, repeat that part of the Matrimonial ser- 
vice which is uttered by the Bride ; then she would 
wait for a few moments silently, as if expecting 
to hear another voice, and at length, looking round 
on the empty Church, utter a dreadful groan, and 
hurry away. At other times she would wander 
through the Church-yard, count over the tombs 



354 MISCELLANEOUS 

one by one, and read all the inscriptions, as if she 
was seeking one which she could not find ; while 
it was observed that she was always more cheerful 
after having been employed in this manner. ** He 
is not dead! I shall see him soon!" she would 
say ; but as her path homewards led by the ruins 
of the fallen mountain, the dreadful recollection 
seemed to rush upon her brain, and she was often 
carried away from the spot as senseless as at first. 
The only occupation which seemed to impart any 
tranquillity to her mind was singing, or playing 
upon her lute, those little melodies which she and 
Victor used to chaunt together. The Song which 
I have translated was her especial favourite ; and 
while singing the last verse she would look up- 
wards, and, after she had finished it, remain silent 
for some time, as if she expected that the promise 
which it contains would be literally fulfilled, and 
that she should hear her lover's voice responsive 
to her own. In her wanderings she was conti- 
nually penetrating into paths which were unknown 
to the Villagers generally, and some of these are 
now among the most beautiful spots pointed out 
to the curious traveller. At length she found a 
little Valley, composed of only one green field, 
and one gurgling rill which stole through it, and 
surrounded by picturesque rocks, which were 
clothed with a profusion of beautiful trees ; larches. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 355 

firs, pines^ and others of every imaginable form 
and hue. She sat down by the margin of the 
little stream, and sang her favourite ballad. The 
first two verses she warbled, or rather recited, in 
a low mournful tone, but when she came to the 
last, she raised her voice to the highest compass ; 
and her tones, which were always beautiful, were 
described by those who followed her unseen, at a 
short distance, to be, on this occasion, of seraphic 
sweetness. As she elevated her voice, all the 
echoes with which that romantic spot abounds, 
were awakened ; and every rock warbled, as it 
were, a response to her Song. Now the sound 
rolled over her head deep and sonorous ; now it 
became softened and mellowed among the hills ; 
now it returned as loudly and distinctly as at first ; 
and at length died away in a faint and distant 
whisper. Annette clasped her hands in rapture ; 
her eyes were raised to Heaven ; tears, but tears 
of joy, stole down her cheek ; her beautiful face, 
which sorrow, and sickness, and insanity, had 
robbed of many of it's charms, seemed now more 
beautiful than ever, and her whole form appeared 
animated by something which was more than 
earthly. " Tis he ! — 'tis Victor speaks ! — 

* Thou warblest notes from Heaven above, 
To me, Love ! only me '/ 



356 MISCELLANEOUS 

My Love! my life! where art thou? — I have 
sought thee long ; my brain is strangely troubled, 
but now we will part no more. — I see thee beckon 
me! — Victor! my love! — I come! — I come!" 
The echoes answered " Come ! — come !" Annette 
lifted her hands once more to Heaven ; then sank 
upon the earth, and her Spirit fled for ever ! 

Since that time the spot on which she died has 
gone by the name of " Annette's Vale." The 
Villagers think it haunted, and never enter it but 
with uncovered head and naked feet ; but more 
from reverence than fear, for who would fear the 
gentle Spirit of Annette de la Cluse ? The Cha- 
mois which escapes into this place is in a sanctuary; 
and the flowers which grow there are never 
plucked but to strew upon Annette's grave ; in 
every murmur of the wind, in every rustling of 
the leaves, are heard the voices of her and her 
lover; and, above all, the echoes among those 
rocks are listened to with awe, as the Songs or the 
conversations of Victor and Annette! 

" New European Magazine," 1822. 



THE POET'S DREAM. 



Oh ! then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. — 

Shakspeare. 



It was in the forenoon of a sultry autumnal day, 
in the year 1638, that a person apparently about 
five and thirty years of age, handsomely, though 
not gorgeously clad in the costume of the country, 
and mounted upon a mule, was seen traversing the 
wild and romantic road which leads from Sienna 
to Rome. A slight glance at the Traveller would 
enable the intelligent observer to discover in him 
" more than marks the crowd of vulgar men." 
His forehead was high and pale ; and his hair, of a 
light flaxen colour, flowed in rich ringlets over his 
shoulders. Although his complexion was consi- 
derably tinged by the southern suns which he had 
encountered in the course of his travels, it was 
evidently originally very fair, if not pale ; and, to- 
gether with the oval face and bright blue eyes, de- 



858 MISCELLANEOUS 

noted a native of a more northern region than that 
which he was traversing. His countenance was 
singularly beautiful, and it's mild and beneficent 
expression was shaded, but not impaired, by the 
pensive air which, apparently, deep study, or 
perhaps early misfortune had cast over it. His 
height was rather above the middle stature ; and 
his form displayed that perfection of symmetry 
which we usually look for in vain in nature, but 
mark with admiration in the works of Phidias and 
of Raffaelle. He was followed by a servant, 
also mounted upon a mule, and both were taking 
the high road to the " eternal City," from which 
they were distant about two days' journey. 

The day was sultry, and as the road then wound 
among some of the most precipitous and difficult 
passes of the Appenines, the Travellers appeared 
to experience considerable fatigue. It was with 
no slight degree of pleasure, therefore, that they 
descried, at a small distance onwards, a thick 
forest of pines, which promised a shelter from the 
noontide heat, as well as an opportunity of ex- 
ploring the contents of their wallet, for the pur- 
pose of procuring refreshment. Having arrived 
there, they dismounted ; and their morning's meal, 
consisting of bread, fruit, cheese, and wine, was 
soon spread before them ; and nearly as soon dis- 



PROSE AND POETRY. 359 

appeared before snch appetites, as a long fast 
and a fatiguing journey never fail to create. The 
superior Traveller then having desired his servant 
to lead the mules to a little distance, prepared 
to take a short slumber previous to resuming his 
journey. 

He had not long resigned himself to sleep be- 
fore his ever restless brain began to teem with cer- 
tain vague and shadowy forms, which at length 
settled into a vision of consummate beauty. He 
fancied that he beheld a beautiful female figure 
bending over and gazing at him, while her fea- 
tures were expressive of the utmost astonishment 
and delight. Once she appeared to speak, and the 
wonder with which he beheld the exquisite loveli- 
ness of her form and features, was lost in that 
excited by the ravishing melody of her voice. He 
extended his hand towards her, and endeavoured 
to grasp her own ; she gently eluded him, smiled, 
and dropping a small scroll of paper, vanished 
from his sight, while our traveller, with the effort 
which he made to reach it, suddenly awoke. 

He started on his feet, scarcely believing that 
what he had seen could have been a dream, so 
strong and vivid was the impression which it had 
made upon his senses ; but his wonder was wound 
up to the highest pitch at perceiving a scroll, ex- 



860 MISCELLANEOUS 

actly resembling that which he had seen in his 
dream, lying at his feet. He snatched it up ea- 
gerly, and read the following lines : — 

" Occhi stelli mortili 
Ministri di miei mali 
Che'n sogno anco mostrat§, 
Che'l mio morir bramate. 
Se chiusi m*uccidete, 
Aperti che farete !'* 

which, in our own less mellifluous language, would 
read nearly thus ; — 

" Eyes! ye mortal stars which shed 
Fatal influence on my head, 
Bidding me in omens know, 
That to you my death I owe, 
If when closed ye've power to slay, 
Hide me from your opening ray ! ** 

Doubting the evidence of his senses, he read the 
scroll over again and again, before he thought of 
calling his servant, and endeavouring to gather 
from him such particulars as might assist in un- 
ravelling the mystery. The account which he re- 
ceived from his domestic only involved him in new 
perplexities. From him he learned that, during 
his slumber, a carriage, containing two elegantly 
dressed females, had stopped close to the place 
where his master was sleeping ; that the youngest 



PROSE AND POETRY. 361 

of the two, whose description^ as related by the 
servant, corresponded in the most minute parti- 
culars with the figure which he had seen in his 
dream, alighted ; and after gazing for some time 
upon the handsome sleeper, addressed certain in- 
terrogatories to the domestic, which, from his ig- 
norance of the language in which they were con- 
veyed, he was unable either to comprehend, or 
answer; that she then hastily wrote some lines 
upon a scroll, which she threw at his master's feet ; 
and, seeing the latter move, re-entered the car- 
riage, which immediately drove off with the utmost 
rapidity. 

'' You would know her again, Horatio ?" en- 
quired the wondering Traveller. 

" Aye, Sir," returned the other, " even were her 
beautiful face veiled ; let her but utter three words, 
and I shall remember her voice. Not even when 
I saw the Lady Alice Egerton play in the Masque 
at Ludlow Castle, and heard her call upon Echo 
in her Song, till I wondered how so sweet an in- 
vitation could be resisted, did I feel my soul steal- 
ing out at my ears so delightfully ; for even she, 
craving your honour's pardon, was but a chirrup- 
ping wren to this Italian nightingale." 

" Saddle the mules instantly," interrupted his 
master, " let us lose no time in overtaking her." 

R 



362 MISCELLANEOUS 

** Oh Sir ! that were a fruitless chase, for the 
carriage has had a long start before us, besides 
being drawn by four of the fleetest horses in 
Italy." 

'* Nevertheless, speed will do no harm, Horatio; 
and unless we travel at a quicker pace than that 
at which we have been proceeding this morning, I 
shall scarcely reach Rome in time for the Cardinal 
Barberini's Concert to-morrow evening." 

They accordingly resumed their journey, the 
ci-devant sleeper much marvelling at the extraor- 
dinary incident of the day, and puzzling his brains, 
for he was deeply learned in metaphysics, to ac- 
count for the phenomenon by which that which was 
hidden from his visual organs, was revealed to his 
" mind's eye'* during the hour of slumber. He 
was, however, unable to arrive at any more satis- 
factory conclusion than that contained in two lines 
of his favourite author, which he uttered aloud, 
turning round to his valet, — 

" There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in our Philosophy.'' 

They now travelled with the utmost expedition, 
but, as our Readers will have guessed from the in- 
formation of Horatio} without overtaking the fair 



PROSE AND POETRY. 363 

and mysterious fugitive. Nothing occurred during 
the remainder of their journey beyond the usual 
routine of eating, drinking, sleeping, and travelhng ; 
and sometimes the necessity, however unpleasant, 
of dispensing with the three former items, until 
they arrived at Rome. Here our Traveller's first 
care was to find out the residence of his friend 
Holstenius, keeper of the Vatican library, and 
with whom he had become acquainted at Oxford, 
where the Italian had resided for three years. 

The meeting of the friends was cordial and af- 
fectionate. " But we have no time to lose," said 
Holstenius, " the Cardinal's Concert has already 
commenced, and he is in the utmost anxiety to see 
you : you will find there a distinguished party, who 
are drawn together principally in the expectation 
of meeting you." 

" I fear," said the Englishman, half smiling, 
and at the same time lowering his brow, as to the 
present day is done by literary men, when they 
feel, or affect to feel, offended at being made what 
they call *' a shew" of; ''I fear that the attraction 
will cease when the cause of it is seen and known. 
But who are these, friend Holstenius, to whom I 
am to be exhibited this evening?" 

'' Amongst others, to the Marquis Villa, who has 
just arrived from Naples," said the other. 

R 2 



364 MISCELLANEOUS 

" What ! Manso ?" exclaimed the Englishman, 
his features brightemng as he spoke, " the friend 
of the illustrious Tasso ?" 

" The same," resumed Holstenius; " also the 
Poets, Selvaggi and Salsilli ; the famous Grotius, 
the Swedish Ambassador to the Court of France, 
who is here on a visit to his Eminence, and whom 
I believe you met at Paris ; the Duke de Pagliano ; 
and the Count di Vivaldi. Adriana of Mantua, 
Sister to the Poet Basil, and her daughter Leonora 
Baroni, who are reported to be the finest singers 
in the world, have also arrived at Rome expressly 
to be present at this entertainment." 

The momentary gloom which had gathered on 
the Englishman's features, was immediately dis- 
persed ; he expressed the utmost delight at the 
prospect of mingling with the lofty spirits who 
were assembled under the Cardinal Barberini's 
roof; and, after having suitably attired himself, 
the friends were not long in finding their way to 
the Cardinal's Palace. 

Here they found the illustrious owner, although 
nephew to the ruling Pontiff, and possessing, under 
him, the whole delegated sovereignty of Rome, 
anxiously looking amongst the crowd at the door 
for his transalpine guest. When he recognised 
Holstenius and his friend, he darted out, and 



PROSE AND POETRY. 365 

grasping the latter by the hand, heartily bade him 
welcome. He then led him up a magnificent 
staircase lined with attendants in the most gorgeous 
liveries, and blazing with innumerable lamps, until 
he arrived at a splendid Saloon, in which the dis- 
tinguished company were assembled. Here, after 
a momentary pause, he elevated his voice and an- 
nounced in an exulting tone to the anxious audi- 
tory, the presence of *' il Signer Milton." 

*' Onor a I'altissimo Poeta !" exclaimed a hun- 
dred voices. Fair hands strewed flowers upon his 
head, and noble palms were extended emulous of 
his grasp. The learned and the famous, the rich, 
and the young, and the beautiful, all crowded with 
expressions of admiration and dehght around the 
illustrious Englishman. The Poet Salsilh, was the 
first who gained possession of Milton's hand, and 
fixing upon him a steadfast look, he recited in a 
loud voice the following lines : — 

■*■' Cede Meles ; cedat depressa Mincius urna, 
Sebetus Tassum desinat usque loqui. 
At Thamesis victor cunctis ferat altior undas ; 
Nam per te, Milto, par tribus unus erit." 

^^ Meles and Mincius! now more humbly glide, 
Tasso's Sebetus ! now resign thy pride j 



266 MISCELLANEOUS 

Supreme of rivers, Thames, henceforth shall be, 
His Milton makes him equal to the three." 

At this unexpected sally, the place rang with 
applauses, which had scarcely subsided before 
a voice from the other end of the room, which was 
recognised to be that of the Poet Selvaggi, ex- 
claimed : — 

" Graecia Meeonidem, jactet sibi Roma Maronem; 
Anglia Miltonum jactat utrique parem/' 

" Greece ! vaunt your Homer's, Rome ! your Maro's fame, 
England in Milton boasts an equal name." 

The thunders of applause were redoubled, and 
Milton began to feel himself under some embar- 
rassment, as to the mode of returning such extra- 
ordinary and unexpected compliments, when he 
was relieved by his entertainer, begging him to seat 
himself by him, and entering into close conversa- 
tion with him. 

'* I am told, Mr. Milton," said the Cardinal, " that 
you are a proficient in the divine art of Music." 

" I can claim but a slender acquaintance with 
the Science," answered the Poet; ** but I have 
ever been peculiarly susceptible of it's power, and 



PROSE AND POETRY. 367 

have found my feelings swayed by it in an extra- 
ordinary manner, upon more than one occasion. 
To my Father, who was deeply accomplished in 
the science, and to my friend and countryman, 
Henry Lawes, whose fame, I believe, is not un- 
known even in this classic land of song, I am in- 
debted for what little knowledge I may possess." 

'' Nay, nay, Mr. Milton, your knowledge is 
somewhat greater than you will allow. The cele- 
brated Leonora Baroni, who has just left the 
room, but will soon re-enter it, had, shortly before 
your arrival, delighted the company, by the ex- 
quisite manner in which she sang a divine melody 
composed by herself, to suit some still diviner 
words of yours, which fully prove that you have 
the soul and the feelings of the most inspired mu- 
sician." He then recited with energy and pro- 
priety, although with a strong foreign accent, the 
following lines: — 

" Blest pair of Syrens, pledges of Heaven's joy ! 

Spliere-bora harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse! 
Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd power employ, 

Dead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce ; 
And to our high-raised phantasy present 
That undisturbed Song of pure consent, 
Aye sung before the sapphire-colour'd Throne 
To him that sits thereon, 



368 MISCELLANEOUS 

With saintly shout and solemn jubilee ; 
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row, 
Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow ; 
And the cherubic host, in thousand quires, 
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires; 
With those just Spirits that wear victorious palmSy 
Hymns devout, and holy psalms^^ 

Singing everlastingly V 

The conversation between the Cardinal and his 
illustrious guest was here interrupted by the en- 
trance of Adriana, of Mantua, and her daughter, 
Leonora Baroni. Milton's heart throbbed, and he 
drew his breath thickly, as he fancied that he re- 
cognised in the figure of the latter, the fair one who 
had brightened his dreams among the Appenines» 
The first glimpse of her face confirmed him in this 
idea, and he was about to rush to the harp at 
which she had seated herself, and the strings of 
which she was trying, when a moment's reflection 
convinced him of the impropriety of such a pro- 
ceeding. The resemblance might be accidental, 
or it might be produced merely by his own heated 
imagination. At length she struck the strings, 
and played a low sweet prelude with such exquisite 
delicacy, and yet such masterly execution, that 
the whole company were entranced in wonder, and 
none more so than the Poet. She then raised her 
voice, whose divine tones thrilled to his very souL 



PROSE AND POETRY. 369 

The air was her own composition, and of matchless 
beauty ; but what was his astonishment at recog- 
nising in the Poetry to which it was adapted, the 
very words which were inscribed upon the scroll. He 
rose from his seat, and approached the beautiful 
songstress. Like his own Adam, he " hung over 
her enamoured." He forgot his hopes, his ambi- 
tion, his travels, the place in which he was; he 
forgot even the extraordinary way in which he first 
became acquainted with her. The recollection of 
all was lost in the intense delight with which he 
listened to the flood of melody which she was 
pouring forth. At length she came to the con- 
cluding verses of the Madrigal : — 

" Se chiusi m'uccidete, 
Aperti die farete ! " 

and as she warbled the last line, turned her head, 
and beheld the bright blue eyes of the Poet, as 
though his whole soul was concentrated in those 
two orbs, gazing upon her. A slight tremor 
shook her frame ; a deadly paleness overspread 
her face ; and she sank senseless upon the ground. 
This incident created general confusion. The 
whole company crowded round the harp, and 
beheld the beautiful Leonora, pale and senseless, 

R 3 



370 MISCELLANEOUS 

in the arms of the Poet, while her Mother was 
chafing her temples in an agony of distress. At 
length Milton and Adriana succeeded in convey- 
ing her out of the room into the open air. It was 
a bright and beautiful night. The moon was riding 
high, shedding a mild pale light upon the waters 
of the Tiber, the venerable monuments of the 
Eternal City which frowned upon it's banks, and 
the lofty summits of the Appenines towering in 
the distance. The night-wind crept from leaf to 
leaf, and gently agitated the waters of the river ; 
while from a neighbouring grove the notes of the 
nightingale were borne upon the breeze. The ge- 
nial influence of the air, and the fragrance of a 
thousand odorous flowers, which bloomed around 
her, soon revived Leonora. The first objects 
which she beheld, on opening her eyes, were those 
" stelli mortali," which had been the cause of this 
confusion. A smile played upon her lip, although 
a deep blush overspread her cheeks, as she said 
to Milton, " I believe, Sir, we have met before, 
and I hope you will pardon the inconsiderate folly 
of an enthusiastic girl." 

'^ Talk not of pardon !*' interrupted the Poet, 
** divine Leonora! talk of joy, of rapture ! The 
heavenly form which I fancied an insubstantial 



PROSE AND POETRY. 371 



vision is corporeal, is vital, and I hold it in my 



arms 



»" 



We believe the lady blushed^ and gently disen- 
gaged herself, according to the received dicta of 
decorum on such occasions. The Poet, however, 
still retained enough favour in her eyes, and in 
those of her Mother, to be allowed to accompany 
them home, and to obtain permission to call upon 
them on the following morning. 

** And may I," said Adriana, as the Poet v*as 
taking his leave, *' may I beg to know, Signor, to 
whom we are so greatly indebted?" 

" My name," he answered, " is Milton." 

" Milton!" exclaimed both ladies, as with a 
feeling of solemn awe, they retreated for a few 
paces, and then, with a deeper feeling of enthusi- 
astic admiration, advanced, and each took hold of 
one of his hands. A crimson blush suffused the 
face of the beautiful Leonora at recognising, in 
the handsome sleeper, the mighty Bard, by whose 
writings she had been spell-bound for many an 
hour of intense and delighted interest. He had 
not yet given to the world his master-work, and 
thus rendered the high encomiums of Selvaggi and 
Salsilli no hyperbole ; but that scarcely less glorious 
emanation of his genius, Comus, as well as L' Al- 
legro, II Penseroso, Lycidas, and some of his 



372 MISCELLANEOUS 

immortal SoDnets, had already appeared, and were 
read, and justly appreciated both in England and 
Italy. The permission which he had obtained to 
appear the next day at their residence, was now 
transformed into something between an injunction 
and a petition. He then took a reluctant leave 
for the purpose of rejoining the assembly at the 
Cardinal's, and apologising for the absence of the 
syrens, which was readily excused on the score of 
the illness of the younger one. 

The remainder of the evening passed without 
the occurrence of any incident, the record of 
which would be likely to interest our Readers. The 
Poet, whose fine person and fascinating manners 
had more than confirmed the feelings of admiration 
which his divine writings had created, retired, the 
theme of universal eulogy. He retired, but not to 
rest; the image of Leonora haunted his waking 
thoughts, and formed the subject of his dreams : 
again he fancied himself among the Appenines; 
again the fairy figure approached and dropped the 
scroll ; again he stretched forth his hand, but more 
successfully than before ; he reached hers ; when 
suddenly the scene changed, and he found himself 
in the Saloon of the Barberini Palace, with the 
beautiful songstress, pale and senseless, in his 
arms. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 373 

He arose feverish and unrefreshed ; and while 
the divine tones of Leonora's voice seemed to 
be still ringing in his ears, he seized his pen, and 
composed the following elegant Latin verses : — 

'' AD LEONORAM ROMtE CANENTEM. 

Altera Torquatum cepit Leonora poetam, 
Cujus ab insano cessit amore furens. 
Ah miser ! ille tuo quanto felicior aevo 
Perditus et propter te, Leonora foret ! 
Et te Pieria sensisset Toce canentem 
Aurea maternas fila movere lyras ; 
Quamvis Dircaso torsisset lumina Pentheo 
Saevior, aut totus desipuissetiners; 
Tu tamen errantes cesca vertigine sensus 
Voce eadem poteras composuisse tua; 
Et poteras, asgro spirans sub corde, quietem 
Flexamino cantu restituisse sibi." 

Which have been thus translated by Dr. Sym- 
mons : — 

" TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME. 

Another Leonora's charms inspired 
The love that Tasso's phrensied senses fired; 
More blest had been his fate were this his age, 
And you th' inspirer of his amorous rage. 
Oh ! had he heard the wonders of your song, 
As leads your voice it's liquid maze along; 



374 MISCELLANEOUS 

Or, seen you in your Mother's right command 
The Lyre, while rapture wakes beneath your hand ; 
By Pentheus' wildness though his brain were tost, 
Or his worn sense in sullen slumber lost, 
His soul had check'd her wanderings at the strain ; 
The soothing charm had lulFd his stormy brain ; 
Or, breathing with creative power had driven 
Death from his heart, and open'd it to Heaven/' 



These lines were despatched by the Poet early 
in the morning to Leonora, and he himself was 
not long in following. His second interview with 
the fair syren was deeply interesting to both. The 
charms and talents of Leonora made an impression 
on the heart of the Bard, which he found himself 
unable to control; and in the feelings with which 
the former now regarded Milton, there was less of 
admiration for the Poet, than of affection for the 
handsome and accomplished Englishman who sat 
beside her. Our Readers, therefore, will not be 
surprised to hear that this visit lasted long, and 
was quickly succeeded by another and another. 
The ladies shortly afterwards leaving Rome for 
Mantua, Milton escorted them to the latter place, 
and fixed his temporary abode there, where his 
attentions to Leonora became still more marked. 
The keen apprehension of Adriana soon detected 
the state of their hearts, but the feelings which 



PROSE AND POETRY. 375 

the discovery awakened in ber own, were by no 
means of an unmingled cbaracter. The accom- 
plisbments, both mental and personal, of her 
Daughter's suitor had gained the admiration and 
esteem of the Mother ; but his transalpine birth, 
and heretical creed, presented obstacles to the 
union, which, although to her they did not appear 
insuperable, would, she feared, be deemed so by 
other members of the family, and especially by 
her Son ; who was an officer in the service of the 
Republic of Venice, a bigoted adherent to the 
Church of Rome; of fierce and ungovernable 
passions ; and accustomed to rule with despotic 
authority in all the concerns of the family. When, 
therefore, Milton formally announced himself to 
Adriana, as a suitor for her Daughter's hand, she 
did not affect to disguise her own approbation of 
the proposal, but informed him that it would be 
necessary that Leonora's relations, and especially 
her Brother, should be consulted. Milton, who 
was not ignorant of the temper and character of 
the soldier, felt much chagrined at this intelligence, 
but proposed to take a journey to Venice immedi- 
ately, for the purpose of advocating his suit in 
person. The entreaties of Adriana, who antici- 
pated dangerous, if not fatal consequences, from 
so abrupt a proceeding, induced him to relinquish 



376 MISCELLANEOUS 

his design. She undertook to break the matter to 
her son by degrees ; but, as she had no doubt that 
the first intelligence would bring him, foaming with 
fury, to Mantua, she advised Milton to withdraw 
himself for a short time from that city. This ad- 
vice the Poet determined to adopt ; especially as 
he had lately received several pressing invitations 
from the Marquis Villa to visit him at Naples. 
His parting interview with Leonora was of the 
most tender description; vows of eternal fidelity 
were made on both sides; and sighs, and tears, and 
protestations, were lavished with even more than 
amatory prodigality. 

At Naples the Poet was received with open 
arms by Manso. This fine old man, who had been 
the friend and patron of Marino and of Tasso, 
bestowed on the still more illustrious Bard who 
now visited him, the most flattering marks of dis- 
tinction. He acted as his cicerone during his stay 
in Naples ; conducting him through the Viceroy's 
Palace, and all the other public buildings which 
usually attract the notice of strangers ; and also 
introduced him to the circle of his friends, com- 
prising the most illustrious and distinguished men 
in Naples. The manners and conversation of 
Milton were such as to make him a welcome guest 
wherever he went ; and to Manso in particular the 



PROSE AND POETRV. 377 

Poet's society became every day more fascinating. 
That he was a heretic appeared to him to be his 
only fault, and this he considered as more a mis- 
fortune than a crime. Manso's Epigram on this 
subject is well known: — 

^' Vt mens, forma, decor, facies, mos, si pietas sic, 
Non Anglus verum hercle Angelas ipse fores." 

And though the pun in this distich seems to defy 
translation, yet, as Dr. Symmons has attempted it, 
we give his version for want of a better: — 

" With mind, form, manners, face, did faith agree, 
. No Angle but an Angel would'st thou be." 

All the attractions of the society and scenery of 
Naples did not, however, make Milton forgetful 
of Leonora. He wrote to her often, and fervent- 
ly ; and it was from this place that he addressed 
to her those beautiful Italian Sonnets, which we 
find amongst his Poems. To these he received the 
most tender replies ; accompanied, however, with 
the unwelcome intelligence that her brother had 
declared himself hostile to their union, and had 
uttered threats of personal violence to Milton if he 
persisted in his suit. The Poet, in answer, re- 
newed his protestations of unaltered love, and de- 
clared his determination never to resign her but 



378 MISCELLANEOUS 

with his life. He told her that her brother's threats 
could Dot daunt him ; and that his heart, although 
easily subdued by love, was bold enough to en- 
counter any danger; which sentiments we find 
beautifully expressed in the following Sonnet:— 

'^ Giovane piano e siinplicette amante, 

Poi che fuggir me stesso in dubbio sono 
Madonna a voi del mio cuor I'humil done 

Faro divoto ; io certo a prove tante 

L'hebbi fedile, intrepido, costante, 

l)e pensieri legg'iadro, accorto e buono ; 
Quando rugge il gran mondo, e scocca il tuono, 

S'arma di se e d'intero diamante. 
Tanto del forse, e d'invidia sicuro, 

Di timori, e speranze, al popol use, 

Quanto d'ingegno, e d'altor valo vago, 

E di cetra sonora e delle muse. 
Sol troverete in tal parte men duro, 

Ove Amor mise I'insanabil ago." 

" Lady ! to you, a youth unknown to art, 

Who fondly from himself in thought would fiy, 
Devotes the faith, truth, spirit, constancy. 

And firm, yet feeling temper of his heart ; 

Proved strong by trials for life's arduous part. 

When shakes the world, and thunders roll on high, 
All adamant, it dares the storm defy, 

Erect, unconscious of the guilty start ; 

Not more above fear, envy, low desire, 
And all the tyrants of the vulgar breast. 

Than prone to hail the heaven-resounding Lyre, 
High worth, and genius of the Muse possest : 



PROSE AKD POETRY. 379 

Unshaken, and entire, and only found 

Not proof against the shaft, when Love directs the wound." 

Milton continued to reside at Naples for about 
a month, during which time no event occurred 
worth recording ; except that one night as he 
was returning to his own lodgings from the Pa- 
lace of the Marquis, he received a wound in the 
back from a stiletto. He hastily drew his sword, 
and faced his adversary, whom he found to be a 
tall thin figure in a mask. The contest was short, 
and would have proved fatal to Milton, for the as- 
sassin was bis superior, both in strength and skill, 
had not a party of the Police come up just as he 
was on the point of being overpowered. The vil- 
lain made one desperate, but unsuccessful, aim at 
Milton's breast, and then fled with incredible speed. 
His pursuers were unable to overtake him, but his 
mask having dropped ofi during the contest, it was 
hoped that he might yet be identified and secured. 
A strict search was set on foot the following day, 
but no trace of him could be discovered. Milton's 
wound was slight, and soon healed ; and the only 
consequence of this encounter was a determination 
on his part, whenever he ventured into the streets 
of Naples at so late an hour, to go less ostenta- 
tiously ornamented ; for he had worn, suspended 



380 MISCELLANEOUS 

round his neck, by a gold chain, a portrait of 
Manso set in diamonds, which had been presented 
to him by that nobleman, and which, he had no 
doubt, had tempted the cupidity of the robber. 

Our Poet had passed a whole fortnight without 
receiving any letters from Leonora, although he 
had, during that period, written repeatedly and 
anxiously to her ; when, dreading the worst from her 
brother's violence, he determined to proceed im- 
mediately to Mantua. He took a sorrowful leave 
of his friends in Naples, especially of Manso, 
with whom he left as a parting gift those fine 
Latin verses, in which he has immortalised his 
noble friend. 

On his arrival at Mantua, he hastened to the 
residence of Adriana. He enquired if Leonora 
was within, and heard with rapture that she was in 
the little apartment, which was called her Music- 
room. He resisted the anxious importunities of 
the domestic, who admitted him, to suffer him to 
announce him, determining to enjoy the surprise 
which his arrival would occasion. He softly as- 
cended the staircase, and arrived at the door of 
her apartment. As he approached, he heard sighs 
and weeping. The door was half open, and as 
he leaned gently forward, he was surprised at 
seeing a tall thin male figure seated by the side of 



PROSE AND POETRY. 381 

Leonora. His surprise was changed into horror, 
when, on looking in his face, he recognised the fea- 
tures of the assassin who had assaulted him in the 
street of Naples. He grasped his sword, and was 
about to spring upon him, fearing that he would 
commit some violence upon Leonora, when he 
saw the latter take the assassin's hand, and kiss it 
fervently. Horror rooted his feet to the ground : 
he drew his mantle closely over his face, so as to 
cover every part of it except his eyes, while he 
listened in breathless anxiety to the following 
dialogue: — 

" Why," said Leonora, *' why will you talk thus 
cruelly? If you love me no longer, at least pity 
me !" 

"Pity you! pity one so utterly lost! Even 
Heaven itself, all merciful as it is, withholds it's 
pity from the damned." 

" Alas I" she sobbed, " I have committed no 
crime." 

*' No crime!" he exclaimed ; call you it no crime 
to love a wretch like this ? an Englishman ! a he- 
retic! one who has even visited the infamous Ga- 
lileo in his dungeon." 

" And, yet, Antonio," she said, '' he is brave, 
and wise, and kind, and generous; can it be a 
crime to love such an one, dear Brother ?'' 



382 MISCELLANEOUS 

Milton started ! Antonio turned round ; the 
Poet, placed in a dark recess, with his face and 
form muffled in his cloak, would have escaped his 
observation, but his eyes flashing with the fires of 
fury and horror, arrested the attention of the bravo. 

"'Tishe! 'tis he!" exclaimed the latter: *' I 
know that fiend-like glare ; hell and heresy are in 
it. Unhand me. Sister, or, by Heaven, the sti- 
letto, when it enters his breast, shall be reeking 
warm from your own." 

He sprung like an emancipated tiger from the 
grasp of his Sister, and rushed towards Milton, 
" Oh ! spare him ! save him !" exclaimed Leonora. 
She rushed between them as the stiletto was raised 
in the act to strike, and her bosom formed at once 
a shield for that of Milton, and a sheath for the fa- 
tal weapon. 

She sunk upon the ground, bathed in blood ; 
and even the monster who was the author of this 
tragedy was moved. '^ Support her," he said to 
Milton, " help me to hold her up." 

** It is in vain ! all is in vain !" shrieked the Poet ; 
as he clasped her hand, and gazed earnestly in her 
face. She fixed her eyes upon his until they closed. 
One gentle pressure of his hand ; one slight qui- 
vering of her lips ; and then the temple of the im- 
mortal Spirit was an uninhabited ruin. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 383 

Antonio fled howling* from the chamber of death ; 
and Milton sunk upon the bosom of the murdered 
beauty. We have but little to add. The feelings of 
the unhappy Adriana may be better conceived than 
expressed. She survived her daughter but twelve 
months, and ended her days in a Convent. Mil- 
ton, when the first paroxysm of grief had subsided, 
resolved to travel into Italy and Greece, in order 
to divert his melancholy. The troubles, however, 
which just then broke out in England, made him 
abandon this design and return to his native coun- 
try ; " For I esteemed it," said he, " dishonourable 
for me to be lingering abroad, even for the im- 
provement of my mind, when my fellow citizens 
were contending for their liberty at home." 

The death of Leonora made a deep impression 
on the minds of all classes ; and the superstitious 
used to dwell with awe upon the extraordinary ful- 
filment of the prophecy contained in the verses 
which she had inscribed upon the scroll. Those 
" stelli mortali" had literally proved the cause of 
all her ills, and ultimately of her death ; and the 
eyes of Milton were for a long time compared to 
the heel of Achilles ; as the only part neglected, 
and the part which was destined to prove fatal. 

'* HoMMAGE Aux Dames," 1825. 



384 MISCELLANEOUS 



TOTTERIDGE PRIORY. 

A HEVEUIE IN HERTFORDSHIRE. 



Were you ever, my dear Reader, at the village 
of Totteridge ? If not, put your horse to your 
gig this moment ; drive past the pleasant villages 
of HoUoway, Finchley, and Y/hetstone ; and, 
turning sharp round to the left, you will find a 
green lane, so quiet, so rural, so solitary, and such 
a declivity, that you will stand as fair a chance as 
any man in the world of breaking your neck, or 
getting your throat cut, before you get to the end 
of it. Supposing neither of those interesting in- 
cidents were to occur, you will find at the end, a 
long straggling Village, scarcely containing a dozen 
houses, but extending perhaps over a couple of 
miles of ground. There are several houses here 
of rare antiquity ; but the spirit of modern inno- 
vation and improvement has found it's way among 
them, and a parcel of trim dapper brick and stone 
fronts, in the modern style of building, have made 



PROSE AND POETRY. 385 

their appearance, and stare the ancient denizens 
of the place out of countenance. The most inter- 
esting of the old houses is the Priory ; said by the 
inhabitants to be of an age which T dare not men- 
tion to my incredulous Readers. However, it is 
certainly of no modern date, but a gothic eccle- 
siastical structure, built in the style which was 
most prevalent in this Island in the reign of Eliza- 
beth. The cowled Monks, the bare-foot Friars, 
the chaunted Mass, the solemn Vespers, alas! 
alas ! all these have disappeared ; and, instead of 
them, melancholy change ! you meet with nothing 
but happy countenances, pleasant conversation, 
cheerfulness, and hospitality. 

But, this is rambling from the main object 
of my Paper. My indulgent Readers, however, 
know my way, and will pardon it. I had not been 
long under this roof, before I learned that the 
house had formerly been occupied by the cele- 
brated Lord Chesterfield, the prince of diploma- 
tists and dancing-masters. This information I ac- 
quired from my worthy Host, with whom I was sit- 
ting, tete-a-tete, after dinner. Strangely enough, 
it's effect, aided, I suppose, by the wine which I 
bad drunk, was to set my body at rest, and my 
mind at work. My corporeal eyelids closed over 
the organs of vision suddenly, as if they had a 



386 MISCELLANEOUS 

weight of lead upon them, but instantly ** my 
mind's eyes" opened, and I found myself still oc- 
cupying the same chair, at the same table, in the 
same room; but my Host was gone; and instead 
of him, I found standing near me an aristocratical- 
looking gentleman, of fifty years of age, perhaps, or, 
** by'r lady, some threescore." I instantly knew 
this person to be no other than my Lord Chester- 
field. He was dressed most fastidiously, in the 
fashion of the period to which he belonged. He 
wore a long flowing peruque, most elaborately 
powdered ; a blue coat, with a velvet collar, and 
enormous buttons ; a waistcoat which, in our de- 
generate age, would be assigned only to persons 
of the dimensions of Daniel Lambert; and a 
frilled shirt, with lace ruffles; round his left leg 
was tied the riband of the Garter, while he held a 
cocked hat in his right hand, and a gold-headed 
cane under his left arm. 

This courteous, but antiquated figure saluted 
me civilly, but coldly ; and I returned his atten- 
tions in the same manner. He, however, conti- 
nued bowing so long, — bowing, as our friend 
Richard Martin, M.P. would say, like a Master 
in Chancery, — that I plainly perceived his inten- 
tion was to bow me out. 

" Pardon me, my Lord,'* said I; "but this is 
my domicile for to-night." 



PROSE AND POETRY. 387 

*' Exceedingly happy to see you, Sir," he re- 
plied ; ** but you must be aware that this mansion 
is not your property." 

" Nor yours, either, my Lord, I apprehend, 
now, whatever it may have been a century ago. 
I take the liberty of presuming that it at present 
appertains to my friend, Mr. Dashville." 

*' And pray. Sir, who is Mr. Dashville ?" said 
the Spirit, peevishly. 

** Will you taste his wine V* said I, handing him 
a glass, " and then you may give something of a 
guess at him." 

" With all my heart," returned his Lordship. 
"It is a hundred years since I tasted wine, and 
therefore it is no wonder that I feel rather thirsty. 
—Excellent ! excellent !" he added, after empty- 
ing his glass. '* I have no doubt that Mr. Dash- 
ville is a most worthy gentleman ; and, if you 
please, we'll drink his health." 

We now got very sociable, and I could not help 
informing his Lordship of my late interview with 
Ben Jonson ; but it had not the effect which I 
anticipated. 

** Ben Jonson," he said, *' was a clever man, 
but he was a bear ; and besides that, he frequented 
taverns, and kept low company." 

" My Lord !" exclaimed I, in a tone of sur- 

s 2 



388 MISCELLANEOUS 

prise, " the company which he kept was composed 
of Shakspeare, Spenser, Fletcher, Donne, " 

" No matter for their names," interrupted he ; 
'' they were vulgar fellows, not fit for a man of 
fashion to think or talk of. We keep aloof from 
all such." 

" Really, my Lord," said I, ** I am surprised 
that a fine gentleman like yourself, should have 
ever condescended to put your foot into so un- 
fashionable a place as the grave." 

** True, true ; 'tis an unfortunate necessity. 
There is good company there, though, could one 
but keep it select. But, pardon me. Sir, you are 
most hideously clothed." 

Thus saying, he turned me round, adjusted my 
hair so as to look as much like a peruque as possi- 
ble ; flung some of his own powder upon it ; and 
then proceeded to pull my linen and waistcoat 
about, even to the operation of tearing. 

" Hold! hold! my dear Lord!" I exclaimed, 
in a tone of supplication. *^ I shall never be able 
to shew my face in Hyde Park, or Bond-street, if 
you go on in this manner. We dress in a very 
different style now, from what you and your con- 
temporaries did." 

' A smile of serene contempt passed over the 
features of the defunct Peer, as I made this ob- 



PROSE AND POETRY. 389 

servation, and I could plainly perceive that all his 
dead blood was roused. He, nevertheless, ma- 
naged to master his emotion as well as a dead man 
could be expected to do it, and proceeded, 

** I dare say that is very true," said he; ** for 
I have seen most awful changes in the fashions, as 
exemplified by the various occupants of this house, 
who have usually been persons of hon-ton. In the 
first family which succeeded me, the pink of 
fashion was the heir. He was of the real Mr. 
Jessamy breed. He had passed a twelvemonth in 
Paris, where he acquired a becoming contempt 
for his own country and it's manners ; and learned 
just nothing at all of the country which he visited, 
but a few phrases of the language, with which he 
so managed to lard his conversation, as to render it 
unintelligible to a native of either nation. He 
was always seized with a violent spasmodic affec- 
tion if he passed a filthy fellow of a ploughman or 
a haymaker; and once kept his bed for five 
weeks with a violent cold, brought on by the cir- 
cumstance of a person in a wet great coat having sat 
down in the same room with him. He was a gen- 
tleman of very tender and sympathetic habits ; al- 
though he once discharged his whole household, 
because he found a bottle, containing a favourite 
cosmetic, broken, and could not discover the indi- 



390 MISCELLANEOUS 

vidual author of the accident. He at length died 
of immoderate grief for the loss of a favourite 
monkey, to whom he bore a great resemblance, 
and with whom he was on terms of extraordinary 
intimacy. The two animals were so much alike, 
that, were it not that the one wore a tail, and the 
other a sword, it would have been difficult to dis- 
cover the difference. 

*' By the time that the next tenant took posses- 
sion, the fashion had materially altered. Logic 
and disputation were the order of the day, and all 
our fine gentlemen were infidels. The Bible was 
considered as the most facetious book in the world, 
and the most immoderate laughter that I ever 
heard, was that roared out over the story of Balaam 
and his ass. The occupant of the Priory, although 
he did not believe in the existence of his own soul, 
yet, like Hobbes, he paid the compliment to those 
of others, by believing that they revisited the earth 
after death, and he was consequently most dis- 
mally afraid of apparitions. He died one night 
of excessive terror, caused by a friend who 
shewed his kindness and his wit, by arraying him- 
self in a white sheet, plastering his face, and pro- 
ceeding with a lighted taper in his hand, into his 
bedchamber. 

** The house was now shut up for some time, and 



l^ROSE AND POETRY. 391 

reported to be haunted ; nay, the ghost of our free- 
thinking friend is said still to walk in it's most an- 
cient chambers. At length it was bought cheap by 
a dashing young fellow, who drove his own four-in- 
hand, at a time when that accomplishment was 
considered the very acme of aristocratical educa- 
tion. The Coronet was not worthily surmounted, 
except by a coachman's cap ; the gold stick, the 
Field-marshal's baton, and the Steward of the 
Royal household's wand of oflSce, were considered 
as worthless baubles, in comparison with a Jehu*s 
whip ; and the seat nearest the Throne was a sta- 
tion neither so enviable, nor so honourable, as the 
top of a coach-box. The gentleman, however, 
who tenanted the Priory, soon finished his career ; 
for, on turning one evening short round with his 
four greys down Totteridge-lane, he was thrown 
from * his high estate ;' and picked up lifeless, 
and * weltering in his blood,' like Darius of old." 

" A most melancholy termination, my Lord," 
said I, "of such an ambitious and well-spent 
life. But pray who succeeded the Charioteer? I 
suppose some character of a similar stamp?'* 

** No, no," replied the loquacious ghost ; ** the 
Charioteer had nearly outlived the fashion of which 
he was the breathing mirror, and when the young 
Honourable Tom Hardfist took possession of these 



392 MISCELLANEOUS 

premises, boxing was the order of the day. No 
person without a swelled lip, and a pair of black 
eyes, could presume to take his seat in the House 
of Peers ; nay, the blue riband itself was consi- 
dered an inferior distinction to the black eye. Even 
the Ladies shared in the general mania ; and as we 
all know that in that sex there is not so beautiful 
a feature as black eyes, so that those who had the 
misfortune to be born with blue or hazel, had now 
a short and easy means of remedying the defect, 
and becoming at once handsome, and in the fashion. 
Totteridge Priory was now converted into a box- 
ing arena. All the most eminent pugiHsts of the 
day exhibited their science there to the great de- 
light of the proprietor ; until one day, Mr. Hard- 
fist received such a severe blow upon his chest, 
that he was obliged to take to his bed, and, after 
lingering two or three weeks, died in great agony." 

" A most extraordinarily varied succession of 
tenants, my Lord," said I; " and although I am 
no great admirer of your system of fashion and 
manners, still I cannot hesitate in giving it the 
preference over all that you have enumerated as 
following after it. But pray, who filled the vacant 
seat of Mr. Hardfistr 

** Nay, nay,*' said the noble ghost, " we shall 
be getting too near the present times, my friend ; 



PROSE AND POETRY. 393 

and I do not like to talk scandal even in my grave ; 
so, good evening to you/' 

** Nay, nay," said I, starting up, and knocking 
down two or three glasses, " I cannot part with 
you so easily."— This effort broke my reverie^ 
and, on opening my eyes, I perceived no one near 
me, but my Host. 

*' What is the matter?" said hex "I hope you 
have enjoyed your nap V* 

" My nap !" I exclaimed, " I do not under- 
stand you ; Where's Lord Chesterfield ?" 

** Lord Chesterfield !" was the ejaculation in re- 
ply ; ** I have seen no such person." 

By degrees I recovered my recollection ; and, 
as an atonement for breaking the glasses, I was 
obliged to narrate my dream at the tea-table. 
Such as it is, I told it ; and such as it is, I give it 
for the perusal of my fashionable Headers. 

** News of Literature," 1826, 



S3 



394 MISCELLANEOUS 



THE 



SHAKSPEAREAN ELYSIUM 



A FEW evenings ago, after I had spent several 
hours in the perusal of Shakspeare, and while my 
mind was occupied in reflecting upon that amazing 
genius which had *' exhausted worlds, and then 
imagined new," one of those reveries to which I 
have lately been subject, stole over my senses.' I 
fancied myself seated in a crazy boat, upon a 
sluggish stream, over which a sturdy fellow of a 
waterman was rowing me. ** Whither are you 
carrying me, my friend ? " said I. 

''To the other world!" he replied, in a gruff 
voice, which caused a thrill throughout my whole 
fraoie. 

" To the other world !" exclaimed I ; " pray on 
what part of it do you intend to land me ? " 

" I have orders," said he, ** to take you to the 
Shakspearean Elysium." 



PROSE AND POETRY. 395 

This was a place of which I had never heard 
before; and I therefore begged him to explain 
himself more fully. 

*' Why, Master," said he, " you must know 
that this Shakspeare created a world of his own ; 
and filled it, moreover, with such a vast variety 
of characters, that, when their appointed times 
came, Pluto declined admitting them into his 
dominions ; saying, that he had no room for them, 
unless he turned out his own subjects : this place 
was, therefore, created purposely for their recep- 
tion, in which, as in the other, there is both an 
Elysium and a Tartarus. All the characters in- 
vented by the Poet are sent to Elysium ; excepting 
the very few that he has ill drawn, which, to- 
gether with his bad puns, his bombast, and his 
indelicacies, are despatched to Tartarus ; and also, 
excepting his historical personages, who, being 
natives of the real substantial world above, are, of 
course, under the dominion of Pluto." 

** Indeed," said I, *' this is a rare place to visit ; 
but although you, saving your presence, are mar- 
vellously ill-favoured, you do not exactly answer 
the descriptions which I have read of that gTim 
ferryman, Charon." 

" No," said he, sulkily ; *' I am not exactly he, 
although my occupation is similar : T am the Boat- 



896 MISCELLANEOUS 

swain mentioned in the " Tempest/' and fill this 
office at the instigation of an old brute of a Nea- 
politan lord, named Gonzalo ; who prophesied that 
I should be hanged in the other world, and has 
done all he could to make me wish myself so in 
this," 

By the time that my Ferryman had told me thus 
much, our boat had reached the shore. The first 
thing that I did upon landing was to look out for 
that " gentleman with three heads," as Mrs, Ma- 
laprop calls him, Cerberus. Instead of him, how- 
ever, I found a good-looking mastiff with only one 
head upon his shoulders, who turned out to be no 
other than our friend Crab, in the " Two Gentle- 
men of Verona" I soon afterwards learned that 
Bottom, the Weaver, whose fondness for volun- 
teering his services on all occasions, my Readers 
must be aware of, was very anxious to fill this 
situation ; as he said that he could boast of having, 
at least, two heads ; namely, the one with which he 
was born, and the ass's head which Master Puck 
had fixed upon him. The qualifications of Crab 
were, however, considered superior, and Bottom 
was dismissed to Elysium. 

Seated upon the Throne of these infernal regions, 
instead of Pluto and Proserpine, I found Tragedy 
and Comedy. The former saluted me with a very 



PROSE AND POETRY. 397 

condescending bend of the bead; and tbe latter, 
witb a bewitcbing smile, pointed out to me tbe 
gate of Elysium. I entered, and after recover- 
ing from tbe rapture wbicb tbe delicious atmo- 
spbere, and tbe encbanting scenery excited, I 
looked around in searcb of some buman object of 
curiosity. I found tbe place very tbickly popu- 
lated, and tbe inbabitants split into various small 
groups and parties. Tbe first of tbese wbicb I 
encountered, consisted of six or seven persons wbo 
were seated round a table in an arbour, and were 
eating and drinking, and making very merry. I 
soon found out tbat tbey were of tbat class of cba- 
racters, now no longer in existence, so admirably por- 
trayed by tbe great Poet, called Clowns, or Fools, 
Touchstone, '* one tbat bad been a Courtier," was 
in tbe cbair ; and around bim were ranged Lmm- 
celot Gohbo ; tbe bitter and sarcastic, yet, witbal, 
kind-bearted Fool in '* King Lear ;" tbe merry 
singing Clown in " Twelfth Night,'* wbo made 
sucb irreverent sport of tbe cross garters of Mai" 
volio; Pompey Bum, in one particular, tbe greatest 
of tbem all ; tbe Shepherd's Son, and Costard; 
besides several otbers of inferior eminence. I also 
found tbis Company pestered by a troublesome 
fellow, whose object it evidently was to get ad- 



398 MISCELLANEOUS 

mitted among them, but who took much pains to 
persuade them that he despised them immensely, 
and considered himself infinitely their superior. 
This person, whom they at length permitted to 
join them, I discovered to be Apemantus. The 
Grave-digger in " HamleV I learned had long been 
desirous of making one amongst them ; and at last, 
having made them a present of a goblet made out 
of the skull of YoricJc^ the King of Denmark's 
Jester, a noted man of their fraternity in his time, 
he was voted in with acclamation. I soon found 
that Touchstone was the orator and oracle of the 
circle ; and he had just finished his dissertation upon 
the seven causes, and was reading them a Lec- 
ture upon things in general, at the time that I ap- 
proached the party. 

After leaving this facetious group, I joined a 
party of Supernatural beings. Amongst them I 
found that mischievous fellow Puck^ pretending to 
make violent love to one of the Weird Sisters. 
The grim lady appeared to be much flattered by 
his attentions, and was cooking him a delicate 
dish of Bat's liver, baked ; which she proposed that 
he should wash down with a cup of Baboon's blood. 
The waggish Elf, however, was continually pes- 
tering her, by pinching her hips, pulling her beard, 



PROSE AND POETRY. 399 

and riding away on her broom-stick. Caliban 
was sprawling on the lap of his mother Sycorax, 
who kissed his lips, patted his cheeks, and fondled 
the foul monster like a baby. Tall ladies are said 
to be fond of little gentlemen, and accordingly I 
found that Hecate had been guilty of the abduction 
of Master Peashlossom, the favourite of Queen 
Tiiania, and head-scratcher to Nicholas Bottom, 
This small Adonis seemed by no means proud of the 
lady's attachment, and was, for a long time, vainly 
plotting his escape ; until a humble-bee flying past 
them, he sprang upon it's back, and rode away 
merrily to Fairy-land. 

I next met two ill-looking, yet evidently blus- 
tering fellows, moving along at a quick, stealthy 
pace, and casting many an alarmed look behind 
them ; and about a hundred yards in the rear, I en- 
countered a brace of sturdy-looking old Gentle- 
men, one of whom carried a leek, and the other 
a cudgel in his hand. These were indications 
sufiicient to inform me that the first-mentioned 
pair were those valorous military gentlemen. En- 
sign Pistol, and Captain Parolles ; and that their 
followers were the wholesome disciplinarians, 
Lafeu and Fluellen, 

Soon afterwards I found two persons in close 



400 MISCELLANEOUS 

consultation, whose scowling brows, darkened 
countenances, and heaying bosoms, denoted much 
mental affliction. They were weighing clouds, 
and measuring ants' legs ; casting up cyphers, fa- 
thoming the profundity of a puddle, and taking 
the dimensions of a freckle on a lady's cheek, 
which they viewed through a powerful magnifying 
glass. The result always appeared to astonish and 
distress them exceedingly, I knew the first by his 
black visage and martial air, to be Othello ; and 
guessed that the other was his fellow-dupe and 
brother-sufferer, Leontes. 

Lear, Hamlet, Jaques, and Timon seemed 
to be very close associates. Timon was giving a 
vehement description of his sufferings, mental and 
bodily, when he was interrupted by Lear, who 
asked him how many daughters he had ? and the 
querist shook his head incredulously, when he was 
answered that he had not any. Master Slender 
passed by them, scratching his head violently ; upon 
which Jaques, with tears in his eyes, begged him 
to desist, saying that the small animals he was 
annoying, being ** native burghers" of his land, 
had as much right to inhabit there, as he had 
to occupy the ground upon which he stood. Slen- 
der thought he was laughing at him, and said that 



PROSE AND POETRY. 401 

he would have him up before his cousin, Robert 
Shallow, Esquire, a Justice of the Peace, upon 
which Hamlet told him that he was " a very, very 

peacock !" and bid him go to a Nunnery. 

I continued walking on, and soon afterwards 
found myself on the banks of a stream which was 
of a very different colour from any that I had ever 
seen before. I at first imagined that this must be 
Lethe, or a branch thereof, and I afterwards learned 
that the latter had originally been the case ; but 
that such was the antipathy between things Shak- 
spearean and Lethean, that as soon as the first of 
our Author's characters entered these Elysian fields, 
the river shrunk from it's channel, and at length 
left it completely dry. Every one was much puz- 
zled what to do with the deserted bed of the river, 
until, at the suggestion of Falstafi*, it was filled 
with sack and sugar. I was, therefore, not much 
surprised to find that worthy knight and his asso- 
ciates seated on it's banks, with wooden bowls in 
their hands, where they were joined by several stran- 
gers, of whom Sir Tohy Belch was the chief, and 
he soon became a favourite with his brother knight. 
Shallow came up to them, and very gravely re- 
monstrated on the dissoluteness of their lives ; but 
finding that they would not leave their potations, 
he joined them, saying that as he was in the Com- 



40^ MiSCELLANfiOtS 

mission, he might probably be useful in preventing 
a breach of the peace. On this hint Dogberry 
and Verges }omedi the party ; alleging, that as they 
were the Prince's officers, they could execute his 
worship's warrant if necessary. Sir Hugh Evans 
sat himself next to Falstaff, saying, that it was 
unbecoming Christian men to follow such depraved 
courses, but that if they would just give him one 
cup of Sack, he would drink to the amendment 
of their lives. 

The next change that *' came o'er the spirit of 
my dream" placed me among a group of Ladies. 
There I found Rosalind and Beatrice chatting 
very familiarly ; only I thought that the gentle, 
though mirthful, spirit of the former seemed occa- 
sionlly to shrink at the bitterness of her companion. 
Imogene and Viola were walking, arm in arm, very 
lovingly ; as were also Juliet and Desdemona. Mrs. 
Ford, Mrs, Page, Mrs. Fenton^ late Anne Page, 
and numerous other gossips, were seated round a 
tea-table, and inhaling and distributing scandal 
from a beverage, with which they had not the hap- 
piness to be acquainted in the world above. Mrs. 
QuicJcly was attending upon them very busily, though 
she contrived to bear as large a share in the con- 
versation as the ladies themselves. Such a clatter 



PROSE AND POETRY. 403 

and a din, I thought, I had never heard raised 
before, even by female voices ; when suddenly 
awaking, I found that the noise proceeded from 
my own sweet-voiced better-half, who told me that 
my fire had burnt out, my candle was glimmering 
in ifs socket, and that, unless I speedily roused 
myself, I must go supperless to bed. 

" News of Literature," 1826. 



404 MISCELLANEOUS 



THE 



DINNER OF THE MONTHS, 



Once upon a time, the Months determined to 
dine together. They were a long while deciding 
who should have the honour of being the Host upon 
so solemn an occasion ; but the lot at length fell 
upon December, for although this old gentleman's 
manners were found to be rather cold upon first 
acquaintance, yet it was well known that when 
once you got under his roof, there was not a mer- 
rier, or more hospitable, person in existence. The 
messenger too, Christmas Day, whom he sent 
round with his cards of invitation, won the hearts 
of all ; although he played several mad pranks, and 
received many a hox in return. February begged 
to be excused coming to the Dinner, as she was 
in very bad spirits on account of the loss of her 
youngest child, the twenty -ninth, who had lately 
left her, and was not expected to return for four 



PROSE AND POETRY. 405 

years. Her objection, however, was over-ruled; 
and being seated at table between the smiling- 
May, and that merry old fellow October, she ap- 
peared to enjoy the evening's entertainment as 
much as any of the Company. 

The Dinner was a superb one ; all the company 
having contributed to furnish out the table. Ja- 
nuary thought for the thirtieth time what he should 
give, and then determined to send a calf's head. 
February not being a very productive Month, was 
also a littled puzzled, but at length resolved to 
contribute an enormous cake, which she managed 
to manufacture in fine style, with the assistance of 
her servant Valentine, who was an excellent fellow 
at that sort of ware, but especially at Bride-cake. 
March and April agreed to furnish all the fish; 
May to decorate the dishes with flowers ; June to 
supply plenty of excellent cyder ; July and Au- 
gust to provide the dessert; September a mag^ 
nificent course of all sorts of game, excepting 
pheasants; which exception was supplied by Oc- 
tober, as well as a couple of hampers of fine 
home»-brev/ed ale; and November engaged that 
there should be an abundance of ice. The rest of 
the eatables, and all the wine, were provided by 
the worthy host himself. 

Just before sitting down to table, a slight 



406 MISCELLANEOUS 

squabble arose about precedency; some of the 
Company insisting that the first in rank was Janu- 
ary, and some that it was March. The host, how- 
ever decided in favour of January, whom he placed 
in the seat of honour, at his right hand. Novem- 
ber, a prim, blue-nosed old maid, sat at his left; 
and June, a pleasant, good-tempered fellow, 
although occasionally rather too warm, sat oppo- 
site him at the end of the Table. 

The Dinner was admirably served. Christmas- 
day was the principal waiter; but the host had 
been obliged to borrow the attendance of some of 
his guests' servants, and accordingly Twelfth-night, 
Shrove-Tuesday, and Michaelmas-day, officiated in 
various departments: though Shrove-Tuesday was 
speedily turned out, for making rather too free 
with a prim, demure servant-maid, called Good- 
Friday, while she was toasting some hot-cross buns 
for the tea-table. 

A short, squab, little fellow, called St. Thomas's 
day, stood behind December's chair, and officiated 
as toast-master; and much merriment was excited 
by the contrast between the diminutive appearance 
of this man, and the longest day, who stood be- 
hind June, at the other end of the table. Master 
Thomas, however, was a very useful fellow; and 
besides performing the high official duty, which we 



PROSE AND POETRY. • 407 

have mentioned, he drew the curtains, stirred the 
fire, lighted and snuffed the candles, and, like all 
other little men, seemed to think himself of more 
importance than any body else. 

The pretty blushing May was the general toast 
of the company; and many compliments were 
passed upon the elegant manner in which she had 
decorated the dishes. Old January tried to be 
very sweet upon her, but she received him coldly ; 
as he was known not to be a loyal subject, and to 
have once stolen a Crown and Sceptre, and hidden 
them in a grave ; and May, who was loyal to the 
back-bone, had much trouble in finding out, and 
restoring them. January at length ceased to per- 
secute her with his attentions, and transferred 
them to November, who was of the same politics 
as himself, although she had not been quite so 
successful in supporting them. Poor May had 
scarcely got rid of her venerable lover, before that 
sentimental swain April, began to tell her that he 
was absolutely dying for her. This youth was one 
moment all sunshine, and smiles, and rapture ; and 
the next he dissolved in tears, clouds gathered 
upon his brow, and he looked a fitter suitor for 
November than for May ; who having at last hinted 
as much to him, he left her in a huff, and entered 
into close conversation with September, who al- 



408 MISCELLANEOUS 

though much his senior, resembled him in many 
particulars. 

July, who was of a desperately hot temper, was 
every now and then a good deal irritated by March, 
a dry old fellow, as cool as a cucumber, who was 
continually passing his jokes upon him. At one 
time July went so far as to threaten him with a 
prosecution for something he had said ; but March, 
knowing what he was about, always managed to 
keep on the windy side of the Law, and to throw 
dust in the eyes of his accusers. July, however, 
contrived to have his revenge ; for, being called 
upon for a Song, he gave " The dashing White 
Serjeant" in great style, and laid a peculiar em- 
phasis upon the words ** March! March! awayT' 
at the same time motioning to his antagonist to 
leave the room. 

April having announced that it was raining hard, 
January was much perplexed as to how he should 
get home, as he had not brought his carriage. At 
one time, when he was looking very anxiously out 
of the window to discover if there were any stars 
visible, October, at the suggestion of May, asked 
him if he thought of borrowing Charleses wain to 
carry him, as he had done so great a kindness to 
it's proprietor 1 This put the old fellow into such 
a passion, that he hastily seized his head-gear, a 



PROSE AND POETRY. 409 

red cap, sallied out through the rain, and would 
most likely have broken his neck in the dark, had 
not February sent her footman, Candlemas-day, 
after him with a lanthorn, by whom he was guided 
in safety to his lodgings in Fog-alley. 

On the retirement of the Ladies, — February, 
May, August, and November, — the Host proposed 
their healths, which were drank with the usual 
honours ; when April, being a soft-spoken youth, 
and ambitious of distinction as an orator, began 
to return thanks for them in a very flowery speech ; 
but was soon coughed down by December and 
March ; and March, by the bye, at length got into 
such high favour with his old enemy July, that the 
latter was heard to give him an Invitation, saying, 
that if ever he came to his side of the Zodiac, he 
should be most happy to see him. October told 
the Host that, with his leave, he would drink no 
more wine, but that he should be glad of some 
good home-brewed, and a pipe. To this December 
acceded, and said he should be happy to join him, 
and he thought his friend March would do the 
same. March having nodded assent, they set to, 
and a pretty puffing and blowing they made among 
them. April, however, continued to drink Ma- 
deira ; while June, July, and September, stuck, 
with exemplary constancy, to the Burgundy. 

T 



410 MISCELLANEOUS 

After repeated summonses to the drawing-room, 
tbey joined the Ladies at the tea-table. Novem- 
ber drew herself up, and affected to be quite 
overpowered by the smell of smoke, which March, 
October, and December had brought in with them ; 
although it was well known that the old lady herself 
could hlow a cloud as well as any of them. Oc- 
tober seated himself by May, and said he hoped 
that his pipe would not have the same effect upon 
her, as upon her Aunt ; and after having very 
gracefully assured him, that she was not at all 
annoyed by it, he told her, that he would make 
her exercise her own sweet pipe before the eve- 
ning was much older ; which, instead of annoying, 
would delight every body. August, a grave stately 
matron of extraordinary beauty, although perhaps 
MTi peu passe, officiated as tea-maker. Good- 
Friday, who by this time had recovered the fright 
into which Shrove-Tuesday had thrown her, handed 
about the toasted buns, and Swithin, a servant of 
July, was employed to keep the tea-pot supplied 
with water, which he too often did to overflowing. 
Tea being over, the old folks went to cards ; 
and the young ones, including October, who ma- 
naged to hide his years very successfully, to the 
Piano-forte. May was the Prima Donna, and 
delighted every one, especially poor April, who 



PROSE AND POETRY. 411 

was alternately all smiles and tears, during the 
whole of her performance. October gave them a 
hunting Song, which caused even the card-tables 
to be deserted ; and August sang a sweet melan- 
choly Canzonet which was rapturously encored. 
April both sang and played most unmercifully ; but 
the company had an ugly trick of yawning over 
his comic songs, and were ready to expire with 
laughter at his pathetics. 

At length, Candlemas-day having returned from 
seeing old January home, his mistress February 
took leave of the company. April, who was a little 
the worse for the wine he had drunk, insisted 
on escorting November ; although she had several 
servants in waiting, and her road was in an oppo- 
site direction to his own. May went away in her 
own carriage, and undertook to set Juned own, 
who lived very near her. The road was hilly and 
steep, but her coachman, Ascension-day, got the 
horses very well to the top ; and July and August 
both walked home, each preceded by a dog-day, 
with a lighted torch. September and October, 
who were next door neighbours, went away in the 
same hackney-coach ; and March departed as he 
came, on the back of a rough Shetland poney. 

" News of Literature," 1826- 

t2 



412 MISCELLANEOUS 



EVERY DAY AT BREAKFAST. 



The Seven Days of the Week, hearing that the 
Months had dined together, were not a little vexed 
and puzzled at the circumstance, being anxious to 
do something of the same sort, and yet feeling that 
they were by no means in a condition to manage 
the affair so splendidly as their rivals. Every one 
knows that a Month is a person whose importance 
is^ at least, eight and twenty times superior to that 
of a Day, and, therefore, for the latter to attempt 
to emulate the former, would have been only a 
practical illustration of the fable of the Ox and the 
Frog. Still, as the Days very significantly asked, 
" What would the Months be without them ? " It 
was, therefore, unanimously resolved, that they 
should have some meal or other together, to shew 
their spirit; and, as a Dinner was out of the ques- 
tion, it was at length determined that they should 
have a Breakfast instead, and that Monday, the 



PROSE AND POETRY. 413 

tirst lay day — not lady, — of the week, should have 
the honour of being their entertainer. 

Before entering upon a detail of what passed at 
Breakfast, I may as well introduce my dramatis 
personcB to my Readers. Monday, the Host, had 
the reputation, among many persons, of being a 
tea-tic, an idea to which his name gave some 
sort of countenance. He was, however, as far as 
I could learn, a jovial, good-tempered fellow, 
whom every body liked, although a little wild and 
eccentric. He was too fond of encouraging the 
lower orders to lie in bed in the morning, and to 
spend the rest of the day in idleness and drunken- 
ness ; and was consequently much reverenced by 
that class of people, who went so far as to canonize 
him under the title of Saint Monday. He was, 
at the same time, not without his enemies ; for, 
frequently having occasion to escort some young 
urchins to School at the expiration of the vaca- 
tions, they fixed upon him the nickname of Black 
Monday. 

Tuesday bore a great resemblance to her next 
door neighbour ; but she was, on the whole, a much 
steadier person. She was, nevertheless, a great fre- 
quenter of festivals ; and at Easter, Whitsuntide, 
and Shrovetide, there was no one better known 
than she : especially as she was also particularly cele- 



414 MISCELLANEOUS 

brated for her skill in the manufacture of pan- 
cakes. 

Wednesday was an Irish Catholic Priest ; very 
zealous and very scrupulous, but withal a merry, 
good humoured person. He was particularly 
anxious about the observation of fast days. Fasting, 
he said, being a peremptory injunction of the 
Church ; though he would add, in an under tone^ it 
should never be done on an empty stomach. 

Thursday had no distinguishing features of cha- 
racter ; he was a '* fellow of no mark or likeli- 
hood :" one of those harmless, innocent, insipid 
persons who are met with at every table, whether 
it be at Breakfast, Dinner, or Supper. Some- 
times, when he was drunk, he would take it into 
his head to boast of his descent from the Saxon 
divinity, Thor, a piece of Pagan exultation^ which 
excited great horror in all companies. 

Friday was a prim old Lady, of the same reli- 
gious persuasion with Wednesday. She was, 
however, most celebrated for being a very unlucky 
person; as she never sat down to table without 
crossing her knife and fork, spilling the salt, or 
being the occasion of some other inauspicious 
omen. 

Saturday was a Jewish Rabbi of great learning, 
zeal, and, in his own way, Piety. He, however. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 415 

carried his liberality so far as to have no objection 
to take a Breakfast or Dinner with a Christian : 
provided that the said Breakfast or Dinner was 
gratis, and was a good one, 

Sunday was a Clergyman of the Church of En- 
gland ; and most particularly orthodox, especially 
in his preference of Port wine to that frenchified. 
papistical, beverage, Claret. He hated the Roman 
Catholics, principally on account of their advocacy 
of fasting. The Romish Church has very reason- 
ably complained that it's tenets are not understood 
by Protestants, and, had the worthy divine been a 
little more in the secret, I suspect that he would 
not have found their fasts quite such self-denying 
ordinances as he imagined. He moreover heartily 
despised the Jews for their Creed generally, but 
particularly because they disliked roasted pig, even 
though it should be a tithe-pig. He was, neverthe- 
less, a person of great learning, talent, and benevo- 
lence ; and took much pains to instruct and edify 
the lower classes. Since the days of Cromwell, 
however, he had become a little puritanical. He 
would sometimes take offence at being designated 
by his right name, and insist upon being called the 
Sabbath : a title, the possession of which, Saturday 
would always dispute with him, and, in the opiniou 



416 MISCELLANEOUS 

of many, both Jews and Christians, the latter had 
most reason on his side. 

They were in no want of attendants, for they 
had all the four-and-twenty hours at their beck and 
call. They contented themselves, however, with the 
services of four, namely, Morning, Noon, Evening, 
and Midnight. The first was a rosy-faced boy, 
very handy and clever, who waited at table. Noon 
was the cook ; and she laboured hard in her voca- 
tion, as her burning cheeks and greasy forehead 
demonstrated. Evening, a pretty black-eyed 
brunette, received the dishes at the door ; and 
Midnight, a strong, broad-backed negro, officiated 
at the side-board in the character of butler. 

Before sitting down to breakfast, Sunday was 
called upon to say grace, which he did rather 
lengthily. During the time which he thus occu- 
pied, the Catholics told their beads ; the Jew put 
his tongue into his left cheek ; Monday yawned ; 
Tuesday's mouth watered ; and Thursday stared 
at the reverend orator with eyes and mouth wide 
open, and features, which indicated at the same 
time wonder and impatience, expressing, as well 
as dumb looks could, the same sentiments as 
Christopher Sly when at the Theatre, ^* 'Tis a 
most excellent piece of work! — would 'twere done !" 



PROSE AND POETRY. 417 

The Dejeune was, of course, a la fourchette. 
So distinguished a company could not be expected 
to sit down to a dreary cockney Breakfast, com- 
posed of a cup of sugared slop, and a bit of grilled 
bread, smeared over with butter. The fish, ac- 
cording to the French fashion, was not the first, 
but the third course ; an arrangement which Wed- 
nesday highly approved of, because, he said, it 
gave him an opportunity of satisfying both his ap- 
petite and his conscience ; as he could breakfast 
upon flesh and fowl first, and fast upon the fish after- 
wards ; whereas, a fast once commenced, no Chris- 
tian ought to break it until the appointed period. 

Friday, who, at the request of the host, occu- 
pied the head of the table, did nothing but commit 
blunders, both in her feeding and her carving. 
She ate the bread of her neighbour on her right 
hand, drank the wine of him on her left, and 
loaded the Jew's plate with huge slices of ham, the 
quality of which the latter contrived not to find out 
until after he had swallowed them. 

The Divine, having somewhat blunted his ap- 
petite, began to think about the Protestant faith, 
and commenced a furious attack upon the Priest, 
for the worship of images. The latter having at 
last convinced him that the Papists entertained no 
such tenet, Master Sunday shifted his ground, and 

t3 



418 MISCELLANEOUS 

said that if they were not guilty of that species of 
idolatry, no one could deny that they worshipped 
the golden calf: a jest at which he himself laughed 
heartily. Wednesday answered it by taking a 
pinch of snufF, and saying, that he had heard as 
much imputed to the Clergy of the Reformed 
Church ; that it was at least certain that they wor- 
shipped the fatted calf of good flesh and blood; 
and that they not merely coveted, but got possession 
of their neighbour's goods, as they cared more 
about the tenth calf than the tenth Commandment. 
This dispute threatening to grow rather warm, the 
host, to put an end to it, called upon Wednesday 
for a Toast : not a very common thing, perhaps, 
to do at Breakfast ; but this, you will remember, 
gentle Reader, was rather an uncommon Breakfast 
party. Wednesday, like a good Catholic, imme- 
diately gave — " the memory of the Saints ;" upon 
which Monday rose up and said, that, as he was the 
only Saint present, he begged leave to return 
thanks for the honour just conferred. Friday 
looked very grave, and seemed shocked at the 
impiety of the host ; but Wednesday only laughed, 
and said they would dispense with Monday's 
speech, if he would favour them with a Song. 
This proposal being unanimously supported, Mon- 
day, after the usual apologetic preHminaries, such 



PROSE AND POETRY. 419 

as " bad cold, — can't remember, — well, — ahem 1" 
— began as follows : — 

*• Talk of days that are gone ! why they're all left behind, 
From Monday and Tuesday to Sunday ; 
Talk of losing a day ! why I never could find 
A man clever enough to lose one day. 

Once a Pleiad was lost, 'twas an awkward affair. 
But 'twas felt less in Earth than in Heaven ; 

If all seven were lost, man would feel little care, 
To whom seven happy days are still given. 

Come, fill me a bumper of Claret or Port : 
One is brightest, the other is strongest ; 

May the days of our happiness never be short, 
And the day we love best be the longest ! " 



By this time, Thursday was particularly drunk, 
and, feeling that he had had a sufficient portion 
of wine, began to want punch, a wish which 
Wednesday observed was natural enough in Judy 
(JeudiJ, as the French called him. Coffee being 
handed about, he contented himself with that be- 
verage, and the eau-de-vie which accompanied it. 
Being very anxious to exhibit his vocal powers, he 
at last managed to get the ear of the Company, 
and bawled, or rather hiccuped out, the following 
Stanzas : — 



420 MISCELLANEOUS 

" Come, fill up the Tankard, the wisest man drank hard, 

And said, that, when sunken in care, 
The best cure, he should think, would be found in good drink^ 

For where can cures lurk, if not there ? 

Trowl, trowl, the bonny brown bowl ! 

Let the dotard and fool from it flee ; 
Ye Sages, wear ivy ; and, fond fellows, wive ye ; 

But the bonny brown bowl for me ! 



To intrude 'mongst companions so blithe, 

We'll lather his chin with, the juice of the bin, 

And shave off his beard with his scythe." 



This, however, was all of his Song that poor 
Thursday could remember; and soon afterwards 
he fell back in his chair, and was carried out of 
the room on the shoulders of the black butler. 

The Ladies, Tuesday and Friday, now looked 
at their watches ; and although they knew perfectly 
well what the time was before they looked, they 
affected to be vastly surprised when they discovered 
that it was near two o'clock. They, therefore, took 
their leave; Friday looked very significantly at 
Wednesday, as much as to request him to escort 
her home, a mode of asking which he did not 
choose to understand ; but he gave her his blessing. 

Sunday now began to express very liberal sen- 



PROSE AND POETRY. 421 

liments as the wine warmed within him. He said 
that we were indebted to the Catholics for Magna 
Charta, and the foundation of those magnificent seats 
of Learning and Piety which we now possessed ; and 
he talked to Saturday about '' God's ancient peo- 
ple, the Jews." Monday, who was nothing of a 
divine, was, nevertheless, happy to see so much 
hariliony among his guests, and assented to every 
thing that was said, whether by Papist, Protes- 
tant, or IsraeUte. Sunday, however, at length 
bethought himself of his cloth, and of the time, 
and having mumbled a thanksgiving grace, which 
was neither so long, nor so well articulated, as that 
before Breakfast, the party broke up, and each 
man took his departure, not remarkably well quali- 
fied for the duties of the day. 

" News of Literature," 1826. 



422 MISCELLANEOUS 



A YOUNG FAMILY. 



You must know, most dear and courteous Reader, 
that I am a Bachelor : not an old one. Heaven 
forbid ! but one of whom the Ladies say, " What 
a pity it is that Mr. Wiggins does not marry ! " 
The fact is, I am sole lord of my hours, and of 
my limbs. If 1 stay out late, I need neither lie, 
nor look sulky, when I get home. I need not 
say, " My dear Peggy, I really was the first to 
come away;" nor run the fearful alternative of 
either losing good company, or enduring a cur- 
tain-lecture. Besides all this, I am not surrounded 
by a sweet young family : but of that " anon, anon. 
Sir." 

Having thus introduced myself to your notice, 
allow me to perform the same kind office for one 
of my friends. George Cheviot and I were 
school-fellows. He was neither very wise, nor 
very rich ; but he was merry, and good-tempered : 



PROSE AND POETRY. 423 

qualities which I could then better appreciate than 
the others, and which T am still heretical enough 
to think the most valuable of the quartette. He 
was, moreover, " a tall fellow of his hands," and 
as brave as a lion ; and J, I don't blush to own it, 
was a weak, puny chitling, and, as it is called in 
school-phraseology, wanted somebody to take my 
part. George, accordingly, fought my battles, 
while I wrote his exercises ; and thus we became 
sworn associates. We played, and romped, and 
rioted together ; and, like the Vicar of Wakefield's 
parties, what we wanted in wit we made up in 
laughter ; which, after all, I still consider the better 
thing of the two. 

After leaving School, we both settled in the 
great city, until George, who had a touch of the 
sentimental in his character, fell in love with, and 
married, a journey-woman Milliner; the conse- 
quence of which was that all his friends cut 
him, and none of his family would go within a mile 
of his residence. For my own part, I make it a 
rule to cut all my friends as soon as they get mar- 
ried : I do not like the transformation of a merry, 
frank, sociable companion, into an important fa- 
mily man. Neither do I like their invariable 
practice of laying every fault upon the shoulders of 
their bachelor acquaintances ; for I have known 



424 MISCELLANEOUS 

more than one man, who, when rated by his amia- 
ble help-mate for his late hours, has excused him- 
self by saying, '* My dear, Mr. Wiggins would 
not let rae come away." Notwithstanding the 
tenacity with which I usually adhere to this rule, 
I determined to make an exception in favour of 
poor George. His grandfather had been a but- 
cher, and his father a master carpenter, and there- 
fore it is not surprising that his mother should be 
shocked at his demeaning himself so vastly. I, 
however, who have always been of opinion that, in 
a free country like ours, a man has a right to make 
a fool of himself, if he chooses, looked at the affair 
with different eyes, and we continued as warm 
and friendly as ever. Although I did not call at 
his house, we met at our usual places of resort ; 
and I found less difference in George than in most 
of my married acquaintances. He was, neverthe- 
less, constantly expatiating on the joys of a married 
life, and especially of seeing a young family growing 
up about you; of " teaching the young idea how to 
shoot ;" and of watching the archness, the vivacity, 
and the simplicity, of the pretty prattlers. One 
day when he was particularly eloquent on these 
topics, and I was as acquiescent and insincere 
as a man ought to be on such occasions, he ex- 
torted from me a promise to dine with him, that I 



PROSE AND POETRY. 425 

might have the satisfaction of seeing him surrounded 
with his young family. 

The appointed day arrived, and I was ushered 
into the presence of my friend, and his lady. She 
was dressed very finely, had a mincing air of gen- 
tility, and I should have thought her rather pretty, 
if no one had said any thing about her. In one 
corner of the room stood a cradle, and close by it 
—no matter what ; socks, and caps, and ribands, 
were thrown about the room in '' most admired 
disorder;" the chimney smoked ; several panes of 
the window were broken ; and three or four squalid, 
dirty-faced children were sprawling on the ground, 
and roaring very lustily. *' That is a sweet little 
fellow, Madam," said T ; — Heaven forgive me for 
the lie ! — pointing to a blear-eyed, bloated-cheeked 
cupid in her arms. 

*' It's a girl, Sir," said she, bursting into a horse 
laugh ; " yes ! '* she added, patting the bloated 
cheek aforesaid, '' and it is a girl, though he 
thought it was a boy, my pretty ! " 

This was the commencement of my bacalarean 
blunders, and the Lady for some time regarded 
me with a contempt, which, had I mistaken her 
own sex, could hardly have been surpassed. 

To recover myself from my confusion I took a 
pinch of snuff; niv friend and bis wife begged to 



426 MISCELLANEOUS 

participate in the contents of my box, which they 
had no sooner done, than every obstreperous 
urchin in the room roared out to be allowed to do 
the same. This petition was followed by a half- 
angry altercation between husband and wife, the 
former saying", ** Oh let them, pretty dears !" and 
the latter, " Indeed they shall not." The cause 
of indulgence, however, triumphed ; and every 
dirty pug-nose in the room, was speedily made 
dirtier, at the expense of my black rappee. The 
consequences may easily be guessed : a round of 
sneezing, snivelling, coughing, crying, and scolding, 
commenced, until the adventure was closed by a 
general wiping of eyes, and blowing of noses, 
throughout the apartment. For myself, I did no- 
thing but commit blunders all the while I was in 
the house. Now my foot was on the nose of one, 
and now my elbow was in the eye of another; and 
I could not stir an inch without being in danger 
of dislocating a boy's neck, or fracturing a girl's 
cranium. I am afraid that I shall be thought a sad 
barbarian, for not being rapturously fond of chil- 
dren : but give me a cat, say I ; I can play with 
that as long as I please, and kick it out of the room 
when I'm tired of it. 

The announcement that Dinner was ready re- 
lieved me, at least for a time, from my many mise- 



PROSE AND POETRY. 427 

ries. While descending the stairs, George whis- 
pered in my ear, asking" me, if I did not think 
him the happiest fellow in the world, to which I 
replied, " My dear boy, I quite envy you." We 
sat down to table, and after many apologies from 
the Lady, who hoped that I should find something 
to my liking, but who feared that her fare would 
be found but homely, as her time was so much 
occupied by her young family, the dishes were 
uncovered. Whatever the dinner might be in fact, 
I found that it was intended to be considered a 
very good, and even a handsome one. The Lady, 
who, before her marriage, had lived at the west 
end of the town, where she made shifts, — in more 
senses than one, — petticoats, and mantuas, in a 
garret, wished to pass for a person of some taste 
and fashion. Accordingly, the table, instead of 
the ordinary viands which the Enghshman de- 
lighteth to masticate, exhibited a profusion of 
would-be French and Italian dishes. Of these I 
merely counterfeited to eat, excepting one or two ; 
among which was a fricassee, for so my hostess 
styled a blue-looking leg of a fowl, floating in a 
sea of dirty lard and salt butter, and a plate of 
macaroni, so called, which tasted exceedingly like 
melted tallow. The best thing which I could get 



428 ^ MISCELLANEOUS 

hold of, was a bottle of their Champagne, which 
was really very tolerable Perry. Our dinner did 
not, however, pass over without the usual accora* 
paniment of much uproariousness from the room 
above, which the sweet young family continued to 
occupy, and Betty was every five minutes de- 
spatched from the dining-room to still ** the dread- 
ful pother o'er our heads. " 
Lord Byron says,— 

a fine family 's a fine thing, 



Provided they don't come in after dinner," 

and I agree with him ; especially in the proviso. 
At my friend George's, however, the young family 
was introduced with the dessert. The eldest, a 
wide-mouthed, round-shouldered girl, took pos- 
session of the better half of my chair ; where she 
amused herself the greater part of the evening by 
picking cherries out of my plate, and spitting the 
stones into it. The sweet innocent whose sex I 
had aspersed, filled, and well filled, the arms of 
Mamma ; and two greedy, greasy boys stood one 
on each side of my worthy host. These contrived 
to entertain themselves in a variety of ways : put- 
ting their fingers into the preserves ; drinking out 
of their father's wine glass ; eating till their sto- 



PROSE AND POETRY. 429 

machs were crammed to satiety, and bellowiug out 
bravely for more. As a variety, we were occa- 
sionally treated with crying, scolding, and threats 
of a whipping, which operation I at one time posi- 
tively expected to see performed in my presence. 
At length the Lady and the *' family" retired, and 
amidst boasting of his happiness on George's part, 
and felicitations on mine, we continued to ply the 
bottle. Rather to my surprise, I found that the 
Port-wine was admirable, but poor George, as I 
afterwards learned, had sent for two or three bottles 
from a neighbouring Tavern, for which he had paid 
an admirable price. After emptying the decanters 
on the table, I found that I had had enough, and 
proposed joining the interesting domestic group up 
stairs. In consequence, however, of my friend 
being very pressing, and of my being ** nothing 
loath," I consented that another bottle should be 
broached. The order to that effect being speedily 
communicated to Betty, she met it with the as- 
tounding reply, *' There is no more, Sir." Al- 
though I told my friend that I was glad of it, and 
that I had drank quite sufficient, his chagrip 
was manifest. He assured me that although his 
wine-cellar was exhausted, he had plenty of spirits 
and cigars, of which be proposed that we should 



430 MISCELLANEOUS 

immediately avail ourselves. To this, however, 
I positively objected, especially as I knew that 
the ci-devant journey-woman Milliner, considered 
smoking ungenteel. 

I have but little more to tell you ; we adjourned 
to the tea-table, where nothing passed worth re- 
cording. The family was again introduced, for 
the purpose of kissing all round, previous to their 
retirement to bed. " Kiss the gentleman, Amy," 
said the Lady ; ^* and Betty, wipe her face first : 
how can you take her to the gentleman in such 
a state ? " Betty having performed this very re- 
quisite operation, I underwent the required pe- 
nance from one and all, with the heroism of a 
martyr. Shortly afterwards I took leave of my 
worthy host and hostess, and experienced a heart- 
felt delight when I heard the door close behind 
me. I am not in the habit, like Sterne, of falling 
down on my knees in the streets, or clasping my 
hands with delight, in a crowded highway. Still 
I could not help feeling, that few as were my po- 
sitive causes of rejoicing, I was not devoid of 
some negative ones ; and, above all, I felicitated 
myself, that I was not the happiest fellow in the 
world ; that I had not married a journey-woman 
Milliner ; and that I was not blessed with a sweet 



PROSE AND POETRY. 431 

5'oung family : as my recent experience of the 
latter comfort had induced me to think that King 
Herod was really not quite so cruel as I had 
hitherto considered him. 

*^ News of Literature," 1826. 



432 MISCELLANEOUS 



THE COMET. 



A FEW years ago at the little fishing town, or 
rather village, of G., on the coast of Cornwall, 
resided a gentleman, who, from his appearance, 
might be estimated to be nearly sixty years 
of age ; though I have since learned that he was 
not more than forty. Whatever his age might be, 
he was more than suspected to be the old gentle- 
man ; that is to say, no other than the Devil him- 
self. Now I, who happened to be obliged, for 
the arrangement of some family affairs, to reside 
a month or two at G., had the misfortune to differ 
from my worthy neighbours as to the identity of 
the occupant of the old Manor-house, with the 
enemy of mankind. In the first place, his dress 
bore no sort of resemblance to that of Beelzebub. 
The last person who had the good fortune to get a 
glimpse of the real Devil was the late Professor 
Porson, and he has taken the pains to describe his 



PROSE AND POETRY. 433 

apparel very minutely, so that I am enabled to 
speak with some degree of confidence upon this 
part of the subject. The Professor's description 
runs thus : — 

" And pray how was the Devil drest? 
Oh! he was in his Sunday's best : 
His coat was black, and his breeches were blue, 
With a hole behind that his tail went through. 

And over the hill, and over the dale, 

And he rambled over the plain ; 
And backwards and forwards he switch'd his long tail, 

As a gentleman switches his cane." 

The " complement externe" of the old gentle- 
man at G. was quite the reverse of all these. In 
the first place, he had no Sunday's best: the Sab- 
bath and the working day saw him in precisely the 
same habiliments, a circumstance which confirmed 
the towns-people in their opinion ; whereas I have 
no less an authority than that of Person for de- 
ducing an opposite conclusion from the same pre- 
mises ; because the Devil is scrupulously particular 
about his Sunday's apparel. Then again he was 
never seen in a coat, but always wore a loose 
morning gown. This, however, was a circumstance 
which, in the opinion of all, told decidedly against 

u 



434 MISCELLANEOUS 

him; for why should he always wear that gown, 
unless it was for the purpose of hiding his tail 
beneath it's ample folds? The goodwives of the 
town were especially pertinacious upon this pointy 
and used to eye the lower part of the old gentle- 
man's garment very suspiciously as he took his 
morning's walk upon the beach. As to his ram- 
bling over hill and dale, in the manner mentioned 
by the learned Professor, that was quite out of 
the question ; for he was a great sufferer by the 
gout, and wore bandages as large as a blanket 
round his leg. Whenever this fact was mentioned, 
the gossips used to smile, shake their heads, and 
look particularly wise: observing, that it was 
clearly a stratagem which he resorted to for the 
purpose of concealing his cloven foot. 

Another circumstance ought not to be omitted : 
he never went to the Parish Church, the only 
place of worship within twenty miles ; and after 
he left G. an ivory Crucifix was found in his house, 
over which there was no doubt, in the opinion of 
the neighbours, that he used to say the Lord's 
Prayer backwards, and repeat a variety of diabolical 
incantations. I ventured humbly to suggest that 
his absence from Church, and the discovery of 
the Crucifix, were proofs, not that he was the 
Devil, but a Catholic ; upon which I was inter- 



PROSE AND POETRY. 435 

rupted with a sneer, and an exclamation of — 
** Where is the mighty difference?" 

He g-ave great offence at the house of a Fisher- 
man who lived near him, and strongly confirmed 
the prejudices existing against him, by tearing 
down a horse-shoe which was nailed at the door 
as a protection against witchcraft, and calling the 
inhabitants fools and idiots for their pains. Seeing, 
however, the consternation which he had created, 
he laughed heartily, and threw them a guinea to 
make amends. The good folks were determined 
not to derive any pecuniary advantages from the 
Devil's gold, but gave it to their last-born, an 
infant in arms, as a plaything. The child was 
delighted with the glittering bauble; but having 
one day got it down it's throat, there it stuck, 
and instant suffocation ensued. The weeping and 
wailing of the family on this occasion were mingled 
with execrations on the author of the calamity, for 
such they did not hesitate to term the old gentle- 
man, who had evidently thrown to them this infernal 
coin for the purpose of depriving them of their 
chief earthly comfort. They were not long in pro- 
ceeding to the nearest Magistrate, and begging 
him to issue his warrant to apprehend the Stranger 
for murder. To this, however, his worship de- 
murred; and the good folks then changed their 

u2 



436 MISCELLANEOUS 

battery, and begged to ask, as the guinea was, of 
course, a counterfeit, whether they could not hang 
the Devil for coining ? To this his worship replied, 
that though coining is an offence amounting to 
high-treason, yet the Devil, not being a natural 
born subject of his Majesty, owed him no alle- 
giance, and therefore could not be guilty of the 
crime in question. The poor people departed, 
thinking it all very odd, and that the Devil and 
the 'Squire must be in collusion ; in which opinion 
they were confirmed by a tallow-chandler, who was 
the chief tradesman of the town, as well as a vio- 
lent Radical, and who advised them to petition the 
House of Commons without delay. 

I will explain to my readers the secret of the 
tallow-chandler's enmity. The old gentleman had 
of a sudden ceased to buy candles ; and had illu- 
minated his house, inside and out, in a strange and 
mysterious manner, by some means, which, from 
the brimstone-like smell occasionally perceived, 
were plainly of infernal origin. For several weeks 
previously, he had been employing labourers from 
a distant town, — for he did not engage the honest 
man, whose pick-axe was the only one ever used 
by the good people of G., — in digging trenches, and 
laying down pipes, round his house. The towns- 
folk gazed on in wonder and terror, but at a careful 



PROSE AND POETRY. 437 

distance ; and, although they had a longing desire 
to understand the meaning of all this, cautiously 
avoided any intercourse with the only persons who 
could give them the least information, the labourers 
who performed the work. At length, one night, 
without any obvious cause, the lamp before the 
old gentleman's door, that in his hall, and another 
in his sitting-room, were seen to spring into light 
as if by magic. They were also observed to go 
out in the same way ; and thereupon a smell, which 
could not be of this world, proceeded from them. 
One day, too, a dreadful explosion took place at 
the house, and a part of the garden wall was thrown 
down ; all which were plain proofs that it could be 
no one but the Devil who inhabited there. The 
good folks of G, had never heard of Gas, or it's 
properties, and I was thought to he no better than 
I should be, for endeavouring to explain all these 
phenomena by natural causes. 

There was one more fact which proved, if proof 
were wanting, the accusation of the towns-people. 
He was a great correspondent, and put more let- 
ters into the Post-office than all the rest of the 
inhabitants of G. together. These were generally 
directed to Berlin, a town which, after much en- 
quiry, was ascertained to lie in a remote part of 
Devonshire, and to be inhabited by a horridly dis- 



438 MISCELLANEOUS 

solute and profane set of people. What was 
stranger still, no part of the superscription could 
ever be read but the word Berlin : the rest was 
such a piece of cramp penmanship, that the most 
expert scholar in G. could not decipher it. The 
Postmaster, without having ever heard of Tony 
Lumpkin t or his aphorisms, knew that ** the in- 
side of a letter is the cream of the correspondence/' 
and ventured one day to open an epistle which the 
mysterious one had just dropped into his box. The 
contents, however, did not much edify him. Not 
a letter was there which resembled any one in the 
English alphabet; it was, therefore, some deviUsh 
and cabalistic writing, invented for purposes of 
evil. My opinion being asked, I positively refused 
to look at the inside ; but having perused the su- 
perscription, I said that it was addressed to some 
one in Berlin, which was a city in Germany ; and 
that, although I did not understand German, I 
had no doubt that the direction was written in the 
German character. Being asked whether even 
I, with all my scholarship, could read it ? I candidly 
confessed that I could not; upon which I was 
asked, with a sneer, whether I expected to per- 
suade them that the Germans were such a nation 
of fools as to write in a hand which nobody could 
read ? The good folks were also firmly persuaded 



PROSE AND POETRY. 439 

that, whatever I might say, I was in my coDscience 
of the same opinion with them, and my refusal to 
look at the inside of the letter was set down as 
a plain proof that I was afraid of receiving some 
mysterious injury if I did. 

My own opinions were so much opposed to those 
of my neighbours, that I felt rather a desire to be 
acquainted with the Stranger, whose manners ap- 
peared to be open and good-humoured, although 
testy and eccentric. My naturally shy disposition 
prevented me, however, from accomplishing my 
wish ; and, besides this, I found that my own 
affairs were enough to occupy me during the short 
time that I remained at G. I learned that the 
person who had created so much consternation had 
arrived at that town about four months before, and 
that the house had been previously engaged for 
him. "Who, or what he was, or why he came 
thither, no one who tried could ascertain. Whe- 
ther I could have attained this wonderful height 
in knowledge, I do not know; for, having some- 
thing else to do, I never made the attempt. At 
length the old gentleman and his two servants, an 
elderly female, and a stout active man who talked 
a gibberish, so they called it at G., which no one 
could understand, were one day seen very busily 
employed in packing up. A queer-looking, broad- 



440 MISCELLANEOUS 

bottomed vessel, from which a boat was lowered, 
appeared off the town. The three Strangers sallied 
out with their boxes, and after depositing a packet 
at thePost-ofRce, addressed to the former proprietor 
of the house, which was supposed to contain the 
keys, and was ordered to be kept until the arrival 
of the person to whom it was addressed, they got 
into the boat, rowed to the ship, and were never 
seen, or heard of, more. 

During the short time afterwards that I conti- 
nued at G. I was subject to repeated lectures for 
my obstinate infidelity as to the old gentleman's 
diabolisms ; and whatever argument I advanced in 
support of my own opinion, it was sure to be met 
by the unanswerable question, " If he was not the 
Devil, who the Devil was he?" 

Many years rolled over my head, and the me- 
mory of the mysterious inhabitant of G. had en- 
tirely vanished from it, when circumstances, which 
it is unnecessary to detail, obliged me to pay a 
visit to the north of Germany. At the close of a 
fine autumnal day in 1824, I found myself entering 
the splendid city of Berlin. Both my good steed 
and I were so much fatigued that a speedy resting 
was very desirable for us ; but it was long before 
I could choose an Hotel out of the immense num> 
bers which presented themselves to my view. Some 



PROSE AND POETRY. 441 

were far too magnificent for my humble means, 
and the mere sight of their splendour appeared to 
melt away the guilders in my pocket. Some, on 
the other hand, were such as no *' man of wit and 
fashion about town" would think of putting his 
head into. At length I thought that I had disco- 
vered one which looked like the happy medium, 
and the whimsicality of it's sign determined me to 
put up there. The sign was Der Teufel; and 
since my departure from G. I had acquired a suf- 
ficient mastery of the German language to know 
what those two words signified in English. I en- 
tered, and, after taking all due precautions for 
the accommodation and sustenance of the respect- 
able quadruped who had 'borne me upon his back 
for nearly half the day, I began to think of satisfying 
that appetite which disappointment,, anxiety, and 
fatigue; had not been able entirely to destroy. My 
worthy Host, who did not seem to bear any re- 
semblance to his sign, unless I could have the 
ingratitude to ascribe his magical celerity and 
marvellous good fare to the auspices of his patron 
Saint, quickly covered my table with a profusion 
of tempting viands ; while a flask of sparkling 
Hochheim towered proudly, like a presiding deity, 
above the whole. My good humour, however, 
was a little clouded when I saw plates, knives, and 

u3 



442 MISCELLANEOUS 

forks, laid for two instead of one. *' What means 
this?" said I to the Landlord. 

" Mein Herr," answered he, submissively, " a 
gentleman who has just arrived will have the honour 
of dining with you/' 

" But I mean to dine alone," I replied angrily; 
not that I doubted the sufficiency of the meal, 
but I did not choose to be intruded upon by stran- 
gers. 

*' Pardon me, meia Herr," said the Landlord 
with unabashed impudence, '* I have told Herr 
von Schwartzmann that Dinner is ready. I am 
sure you will like his company. He is a gentleman 
of good fortune and family, and is moreover " 

** I care not who he is/' exclaimed I ; " but in 
order to cut thy prating short, and to get my din- 
ner, if I must needs submit, let him come in at 
once, even if he be the Devil himself!'' 

I had scarcely uttered these words when I started 
as if I had really seen the person whom I men- 
tioned, for the room-door opened, and in walked 
the old gentleman who had caused so much won- 
der and terror at G. The superstitions of the peo- 
ple of that town, the sign of the Inn where I now 
was, the old fellow's name, Schwartzmann, which 
being interpreted in English, meaneth black man, 
my own petulant exclamation, and the sudden ap- 



PROSE AND POETRY. 44S 

parition of this unaccountable person, were cir= 
cumstances that crowded my brain at once, and 
for an instant I almost fancied myself in the 
presence of the foul fieud= ** You seem surprised ," 
at length said Herr von Schwartzmann, ** at our 
unexpected meeting; and, indeed, you cannot be 
more so than I am. I believe it was in England 
that we met before." 

*' Even so, mein Herr," I answered, encou- 
raged by the earthly tone of his voice, and fancying 
that the good-humoured smile which mantled over 
his face must be of this world, and at any rate 
could be of no worse origin; ** even so, mien 
Herr; and I have often regretted that, placed as 
we were among a horde of barbarous peasantry, 
an opportunity never occurred for our better ac- 
quaintance." 

*' It is at length arrived," he said, filling two 
glasses of Hochheim; " let us drink to our better 
and our long acquaintance." 

I pledged the old gentleman's toast with great 
alacrity, and it was not until the passage of the 
wine down my throat had sealed me to it irrevo- 
cably, that I reflected upon the sentiment to which 
I had drank with so much cordiality; vrcC, was 
again shaken with doubts as to the nature of the 



444 MISCELLANEOUS 

person with whom I had avowed my wish to be 
long and intimately acquainted. 

I looked upon his feet, " but that's a fable," 
and then I looked upon the viands on which he 
was feeding lustily, whilst I, although he had the 
courtesy to load my plate with the best of every 
thing, was wasting the golden moments in idle 
alarms and superstitious absurdity. The more rea- 
sonable man was roused within me, and I fell to 
the work of mastication with a zeal and fervour 
that would have done honour to Dr. Kitchener 
himself. 

*' Well, my friend," said my companion, after 
we had pretty well satisfied the cravings of our 
stomachs, our Landlord has this day treated us 
nobly, and methinks we have not been backward 
in doing honour to his excellent cheer. He is an 
honest fellow, who well deserves to prosper, and 
we will therefore, if you please, drink Success to 
DerTeufel!" 

I had raised my glass to my lips when I found 
that the old gentleman meant to propose a toast, 
but I set it down again right hastily, as soon as I 
heard the very equivocal sentiment to which he 
wanted me to pledge myself. The fiend, I thought, 
is weaving his web around me, and wishes me to 



PROSE AND POETRY. 445 

drink to my own perdition. A cold sweat came 
over me ; a film covered my eyes ; and I thought 
that I perceived the old man looking- askew at me, 
while his lip was curled with a malignant smile. 

** You are not well," he said, taking my hand. 
I shrank from his grasp at first, but to my surprise 
it was as cool and healthy as the touch of humanity 
could possibly be. ** Let us retire to our worthy 
Host's garden ; the heat of this room overpowers 
you ; and we can finish our wine coolly and plea- 
santly in the arbour." 

He did not wait for my consent, but led me 
out ; and our bottle and glasses were very quickly 
arranged upon a table in a leafy arbour, where we 
were sheltered from the sun, and enjoyed the re- 
freshing fragrance of the evening breeze as it gently 
stirred the leaves about us. 

** They w^ere odd people," said my friend, 
** those inhabitants of G. ; they stared at me, 
and shrank from me. as if I had been the Devil 
himself." 

*' And in truth, mein Herr," I replied, '' they 
took you to be no less a personage than he whom 
you have just named."' 

The old gentleman laughed long and heartily at 
my information. " I thought as much," he said, " it 
is an honour which has been ascribed to me from 



446 MISCELLANEOUS 

the hour of my birth, and in more countries than 
one." 

" Indeed," said I, " you speak as if there were 
something in your history to which a Stranger 
might listen with interest. May I crave the fa- 
vour of you to be a little more communicative?'* 

*' With all my heart !" he replied: " but in truth 
you will not find much to interest you in my story. 
A little mirth and a good deal of sorrow make up 
the history of most men's lives, and mine is not 
an exception to the general rule. I was born 
some threescore years ago, and was the son and 
heir of the Baron von Schwartzmann, whose Castle 
is a few miles to the southward of this city; and I 
am now, by your leave, mein Herr, the Baron 
himself," I made him a lower bow than I had 
ever yet greeted him with. " My Mother had 
brought into the world, about two years previously, 
a daughter of such extraordinary beauty, that it was 
confidently expected that the next child would be 
similarly endowed ; but I was no sooner presented 
to my Father than he was so startled at my surpri- 
sing ugliness, that he retreated several paces, and 
involuntarily exclaimed, * The Devil ! ' This was 
a Christian name which stuck to me ever after- 
wards, and which, as you can bear witness, fol- 
lowed me even into a foreign country. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 447 

** My Godfather and Godmother, however, 
treated me much more courteously than my own 
natural parent, and bestowed upon me, at the 
baptismal font, the high-sounding appellation 
of Leopold. Nothing worth describing occurred 
during the years of my infancy. I cried, and 
laughed, and pouted, and sucked, and was kissed 
and scolded, and treated, and whipped, as often, 
and with the same alternations, as children in gene- 
ral ; only I grew uglier, and justified the paternal 
benediction more and more every day. In due 
time I was sent to a grammar-school. As I had 
at home been accustomed to independence and 
the exercise of my self-will, T soon became the 
most troublesome fellow there; and yet, I may 
now say it without the imputation of vanity, I con- 
trived, by some means or other, to gain the hearts 
of all, whether tutors or pupils. For solving a 
theme, or robbing an orchard; writing nonsense 
verses, or frightening a whole neighbourhood; 
translating Homer into German verse, or beating 
a Watchman until his flesh was one general bruise, 
who could compete with Leopold von Schwartz- 
mann? One day I was publicly reprimanded and 
punished for some monstrous outrage, and the 
next rewarded with all the honours of the School 
for my proficiency in the Classics. In short, it was 



448 MISCELLANEOUS 

generally agreed that there was not such another 
clever, pleasant, good-tempered, good-for-nothing- 
fellow in the School. ' Certainly,' the wise people 
would say, * tJie Devil is in him!' 

** And now," added the old man, smiling, but 
smiling, I thought, somewhat solemnly and sadly, 
*' I must let you into the secret of one of my 
weaknesses. I have ever had the most implicit 
belief in the science of Astrology. You stare at 
me incredulously, and I can excuse your incredu- 
lity. You, born in England perhaps some forty 
years ago, can have but few superstitions in com- 
mon with one whose birth-place is Germany, and 
whose natal Star first shone upon him above three- 
score years before the time at which he is speaking. 
Observe that Comet," said he, pointing towards 
the west; ** it is a very brilliant one, and this is 
the last night that it will be visible." 

*^ It is the beautiful Comet," I said, " which 
has shone upon us for the last six months, and 
which first appeared, I think, in the belt of Orion." 

** True, true," replied the Baron; *' it is the 
Comet which, according to the calculations of As- 
tronomers, visits the eyes of the inhabitants of this 
world once in twenty years, and I can confirm the 
accuracy of their calculations as far as relates to 
three of it's visits. You will smile, and think that 



PROSE AND POETRY. 449 

the eccentricity of my conduct and character is 
sufficiently accounted for, when I tell you that 
that Comet is my natal planet. On the very day 
and instant that it became visible, sixty years and 
six months ago, did I first open my eyes in my 
Father's castle. There is, however, a tradition 
connected with this Comet, which has sometimes 
made me uneasy. It runs thus : — 

' The Comet that's born in the belt of Orion, 
Whose Cradle it gilds, gilds the place they shall die on.' 

However, this is it's third return that I have seen, 
and being now as hale and hearty as ever I was, 
the tradition, if it means any thing to interest me, 
means that I shall live on to the good old age of 
fourscore. But to return to my history. I was a 
fervent believer in Astrology ; and thought that if 
I could meet with a person, either male or female, 
who was born under the same Star, to that person 
I might safely attach myself, and our destinies 
must be indissolubly bound together. I had, how- 
ever, never met with such a person, and as yet I 
had never seen my natal Star, for on the day on 
which I entered the University of Halle I wanted 
three days of attaining my twentieth year. Those 
three days seemed the longest and most tedious 
that I had ever passed ; but at length the fateful 



450 MISCELLANEOUS 

morning dawned, on the evening of which, a few 
minutes before the hour of eight, the hour of my 
birth, I hastened to a secluded place at a short 
distance from the town, and planting myself there, 
gazed earnestly and intently upon the belt of Orion. 
I had not gazed long before a peculiar light seemed 
to issue from it, and at length I saw a beautiful 
Comet, with a long and glittering train, rising in 
all its celestial pomp and majesty. How shall I 
describe my feelings at that moment 1 I felt as it 
were new-born : new ideas, new hopes, new joys, 
seemed to rush upon me, and I gave vent to my 
emotions in an exclamation of delight. This ex- 
clamation I was astonished to hear repeated as 
audibly and fervently as it was made, and turn- 
ing round, I beheld a female within a few paces of 
me to my right. 

" She was tall, and exquisitely formed : her 
dress denoted extreme poverty; and her eye, which 
for a moment had been lighted up with enthusiasm, 
was downcast, and abashed with a sense of con- 
scious inferiority, when it met mine. Still I thought 
that I had never beheld a face so perfectly beauti- 
ful. Her general complexion was exquisitely fair, 
without approaching to paleness, with a slight tinge 
of the rose on each cheek, which I could not help 
thinking that care and tenderness might be able to 



PROSE AND POETRY. 451 

deepen to a much ruddier hue. Her eyes were 
black and sparkling, but the long dark lashes which 
fell over them seemed, I thought, acquainted with 
tears. Her hair was of the same colour with her 
eyes, and almost of the same brightness. I gazed 
first upon her and then upon the newly-risen Co- 
met, and my bosom seemed bursting with emotions 
which I could not express, or even understand. 

" * Sweet girl!' I said, approaching her, and 
taking her hand, * what can have induced you to 
wander abroad at this late hour?' 

** * The Comet!* said she, ' the Comet!' point- 
ing to it with enthusiasm. 

** * It is indeed a beautiful Star,' I replied, and 
as I gazed I felt as if I were the apostle of truth 
for so saying, * but here,' I added, pressing my 
lip to her white forehead, * is one still more beau- 
tiful, but alas! more fragile, and which ought 
therefore not to be exposed to danger.' 

" * Aye,' she said, * but it is the Star which I 
have been waiting to gaze upon for many a long 
year ; it is the Star that rules my destiny, my natal 
Star ! Twenty years ago, and at this hour, was I 
brought into the world. 

** Scarcely could I believe my ears. I thought 
that the sounds which I had heard could not come 
from the beautiful lips which I saw moving, but 



452 MISCELLANEOUS 

that some lying fiend had whispered them in my 
ears; I made her repeat them over and over again. 
I thought of the desire which had so long haunted 
me, and which now seemed gratified ; 1 thought, 
too, of the beautiful lines of Schiller : — 

* It is a gentle and affectionate thought, 
That in immeasurable heights above us, 
At our first birth this wreath of love v^as vroven. 
With sparkling stars for flow^ers!* 

In short, I thought and felt so much that I fell at 
the fair girl's feet; told her the strange coincidence 
of our destinies; revealed to her my name and 
rank ; and made her an offer of my hand and heart 
without any further ceremony. 

*' * Alas Sir!* she said, permitting, but not 
returning the caress which I gave her, ' I could 
indeed fancy that Fate has intended us to be indis- 
solubly united, but I am poor, friendless, wretched ; 
my Mother is old and bed-ridden ; and my Father, 
I fear, follows desperate courses to procure even 
the slender means on which we subsist.* 

*' ' But I have wealth, sweet girl !' exclaimed I, 
' sufficient to remove all these evils ; and here is 
an earnest of it,' endeavouring to force my purse 
into her hands. 

'* ' Nay, nay/ she said, thrusting it back, • keep 



PROSE AND POETRY. 453 

your gold, lest slander should blacken the fair fame 
which is Adeline's only dowry !' 

" * Sweet Adeline ! beautiful Adeline!' said I, 
' do not let us part thus. Can you doubt my sin- 
cerity ? AYould you vainly endeavour to interpose a 
barrier against the decrees of fate ? Believe that 
I love you, and say that you love me in return.' 
~ *' * It is the will of Fate/ she said, sinking in 
my arms : * Why should I belie what it has writ- 
ten in my heart? Leopold, I love thee.' 

" Thus did we, who but half an hour previously 
were ignorant of each other's existence, plight our 
mutual vows ; but each recognised a being long 
sought and looked for, and each yielded to the 
overruling influence of the Planet which was the 
common governor of our destiny. I was anxious 
to celebrate our nuptials immediately, but Adeline 
put a decided negative upon it. 

'' ' What,' she said, * were you born under yon 
Star, and know not the dark saying which is at- 
tached to it ? — 



The love that is born at the Comet's birth, 

Treat it not like a thing of earth ; 

Breathe it to none but the loved-one's ear, 

Lest Fate should remove what Hope deems so near ; 

Seal it not till the hour and the day 

^> hen that Star from the Heavens shall pass away.* 



454 MISCELLANEOUS 

" I instantly recollected the saying, and acqui- 
esced in the wisdom of not acting adversely to 
what I believed to be the will of destiny. * It will 
then be six long months, sweet Adeline !' said I, 
' ere our happiness can be sealed ; but I must 
see thee daily, I cannot else exist.' 

" * Call upon me at yonder white Cottage,' she 
answered, * at about this hour. My Father is then 
out ; indeed he has been out for some weeks now, 
but he is never at home at that hour ; and my Mo- 
ther will have retired to rest. Farewell, Leopold 
von Schwartzmann.' 

** * Farewell, dearest Adeline ! tell me no more 
of thy name. I seek not, I wish not, to know it; 
tell it not to me until the hour when thou art about 
to exchange it for Schwartzmann.' 

** Our parting was marked, as the partings of 
lovers usually are, with sighs, and tears, and em- 
braces, protestations of eternal fidelity, and pro- 
mises of speedily seeing each other again. 

'* The love thus suddenly lighted up within our 
bosoms, I did not suffer to die away, or to be ex- 
tinguished. Every evening at the hour of nine, I 
was at the fair one's Cottage door, and ever found 
her ready to receive me ; nay, at length I used to 
find the latchet left unfastened for me, and I stole 
up stairs to her chamber unquestioned. I soon 



PROSE AND POETRY. 455 

discovered that her mind and manners were, at 
least, equal to her beauty ; but the utmost penury 
and privation were but too visible around her. It 
was in vain that I offered her the assistance of my 
purse, and urged her to accept by anticipation that 
which must very shortly be hers by right. The 
high-minded girl positively refused to avail herself 
of this offer, and then I could not help at all ha- 
zards, endeavouring to persuade her to consent to 
our immediate union, as that seemed to me to be 
the only means of rescuing her from the distressing 
state of poverty in which I found her. 

** * Say no more, Leopold,' she said, one night, 
when I had been urging this upon her more stre- 
nuously than ever, ' say no more, lest I should be 
weak enough to consent, and so draw down upon 
our heads the bolts of destiny. And, Leopold, I 
find thy presence dangerous to me ; let me, there- 
fore, I pray thee, see thee no more until the 
hour which is to make us one. I dread thy en- 
treating eyes, thy persuading tongue : one short 
month of separation, and then a whole life of 
constant union. Say that it shall be so, for my 
sake.* 

" * It shall be so, it shall, for thy sake!' I said. 
For, bitter -as was the trial to which she put me. 



456 MISCELLANEOUS 

the tone and manner in which she implored my ac- 
quiescence were irresistible. 

** ' Then farewell!' she said, * come not near me 
until that day. Should you attempt to see me 
earlier, I have a fearful foreboding that something 
evil will befall us.' 

** This was the most sorrowful parting which T 
had yet experienced ; but I bore it as manfully as 
I could. Three, four, five days, did I perform 
my promise, and never ventured near the residence 
of Adeline. I shut myself up in my own cham- 
ber, where I saw no one but the domestic who 
brought my meals. I could not support this life 
any longer, and at last I determined to pay a visit 
to Adeline. 

it t Whither would you go, mein Herr?' said 
the Centinel at the City gate, through which I had 
to pass. 

** ' I have business of importance about a mile 
from the City,' I answered ; ' pray do not detain 
me.' 

'* * Nay, mein Herr,' replied the Centinel, * I 
have no authority to detain you ; but if you will 
take the advice of a friend, you will not leave the 
city to-night. Know you not that the noted bandit 
Brandt is suspected to be in the neighbourhood 



PROSE AND POETRY. 457 

this eveniDg; that the Council have set a price 
upon his head ; and that the City bands are now 
engaged in pursuit of him?' 

^* * Be it so/ I said ; ' a man who is skulking 
about to avoid the City bands is not, methinks, an 
enemy whom I need greatly fear encountering.' 

*' The Centinel shook his head, but allowed me 
to pass without further question. Love lent wings 
to my feet, and already was Adeline's white Cot- 
tage in sight, when a violent blow on the back of 
my head with the butt-end of a pistol, stretched 
me on the ground, and a man, whose knee was 
immediately on my chest, pointed the muzzle at 
my head. 

" ' Deliver your money,' he said, * or you have 
not a moment to live.' 

** ' Ruffian,' I said, ' let me go ; I am a Stu- 
dent at Halle, son of the Baron von Schwartzmann, 
Thou durst not for thy head attempt my life.' 

" * That we shall soon see,' said the villain 
coolly; and my days had then certainly been num- 
bered, had not three men, springing from a neigh- 
bouring thicket, suddenly seized the robber, dis- 
armed him, and then proceeded very quietly to 
bind his hands behind him. 

" ' Have we caught you at last, mein Herr 

X 



458 MISCELLANEOUS 

Brandt?' said one of my deliverers. * We have 
been a long time looking out for you. Now we 
meet to part only once, and for ever.' 

** The Robber eyed them sullenly, but did not 
deign a reply, as they marched him between them 
towards the town. We soon entered the gate, 
through which I had already passed, and were 
conducted before the Commander of the garrison, 
who, as Brandt had been placed by proclamation 
under military law, was the Judge appointed to 
decide upon his case. 

" My evidence was given in a very few words, 
and, corroborated as it was by that of the police- 
men, was, I perceived, fatal to Brandt. I could 
not help, however, entreating for mercy to the 
wretched criminal. 

** ' Nay, Sir,' said the oflScer, * your entreaty 
is vain. Even without this last atrocious case to 
fix his doom, we needed only evidence to identify 
him as Brandt, to have cost him all his lives, were 
they numerous as the hairs upon his head. Away 
with him, and hang him instantly upon the ram- 
parts.' 

" * I thank thee, Colonel,' said the Bandit, ' for 
my death. It is better to die than to witness such 
sights as have torn my heart daily. It was only to 



PROSE A.ND POETRY. 459 

save a wretched wife and daughter from starvation, 
that I resorted to this trade. But, fare thee well ! 
Erandt knows how to die.' 

" The unhappy man was instantly removed ; 
and finding that there was no further occasion for 
my attendance, I rushed into the streets in a state 
that bordered upon frenzy. The idea that I had, 
however innocently, been the occasion of the death 
of a man, shook every fibre in my frame ; and 
while I was suffering under the influence of 
these feelings, the sullen roll of the death-drums 
announced that Brandt had ceased to live. 

'* I went home and hurried to bed, but not to 
rest. The violence of the blow which I had re- 
ceived from the Bandit, as well as the mental agony 
which I had undergone, threw me into a dangerous 
fever. For ten days I was in a state of delirium, 
raving incoherently, and unconscious of every 
thing around me. At length I arrived at the crisis 
of my disorder, which proved favourable. The 
fever left my brain, and the glassy glaze of my 
eye was exchanged for it's usual look of intelligence 
and meaning. I turned round my head in my 
bed, and looked towards the window of ,my cham- 
ber. It was evening ; the arch of heaven was of 
one deep azure, and the Comet was shining in all 

X 2 



460 MISCELLANEOUS 

it's brightness. It's situation in the Heavens, which 
was materially different from that which it occu- 
pied when I was last conscious of seeing it, re- 
called and fixed my wandering recollections of all 
that was connected with it. I rang the bell vio- 
lently, and was speedily attended by my valet, 
who had watched over me during my illness. I 
interrupted the expressions of delight which the 
sight of my convalescent state drew from him, by 
eagerly enquiring what was the day of the month, 
and the hour. 

" ' It is the eighth of August, Sir; and the 
Cathedral clock has just chimed seven.' 

" ' Heavens!' I exclaimed, starting from my 
bed, ' had this cursed fever detained me one hour 
longer, the destined moment would have passed 
away. Assist me to dress, good Ferdinand, I must 
away instantly.' 

*' * Sir,' said the man, alarmed, * the Doctor 
would chide.' 

" ' Care not for his chiding,' said I ; 'I will 
secure thee ; but an affair of life and death is not 
more urgent than that on which I am about to go.' 

*' * The good Curate, von Wilden, is below,' 
said Ferdinand, ' and told me that he must see you ; 
but I dared not disturb you. He was just going 



PROSE AND POETRY. 461 

away when you rang the bell, and is now waiting 
to know the result/ 

" I immediately remembered that I had ap- 
pointed the Curate to meet me at that hour, for 
the purpose of proceeding to Adeline's Cottage 
and tying the nuptial knot between us. I had told 
him the nature of the duty which I wished him to 
perform, without, however, disclosing so much as 
to break through the caution contained in the tradi- 
tionary verses. I lost no time in joining him in 
the hall, and proceeded to leave the house, ac- 
companied by him, with as much celerity as possi- 
ble, lest the intervention of my medical attendant, 
or some other person, should throw difficulty in the 
way. 

" We soon reached the open fields. It was a 
beautiful star-hght evening. The Comet was nearly 
upon the verge of the horizon, and I was fearful 
of it's disappearing before the ceremony of my 
nuptials could be accomplished. We therefore 
proceeded rapidly on our walk. An involuntary 
shudder came over me as I passed by the scene of 
my encounter with the Bandit; but just then the 
white Cottage peeped out from among the woods 
which had concealed it, and my heart felt re-assured 
by the near prospect of unbounded happiness^ 



462 MISCELLANEOUS 

We approached the door: it was on the latcb^ 
which I gently raised, and then proceeded, as 
usual, up the stairs, followed by the Curate. I 
thought I heard a low moaning sound as we ap- 
proached the chamber-door ; but it was ajar, and 
we entered. An old woman, who seemed scarcely 
able to crawl about, was at the bed-side with a 
phial in her hand ; and stretched upon the couch, 
with a face on which the finger of death seemed 
visibly impressed, lay the wasted form of Adeline. 
* Just Heaven!' I exclaimed, ' what new misery 
is there in store for me?' 

** The sound of my voice roused Adeline from 
her death-like stupor. She raised her eyes, but 
closed them again suddenly on seeing me, exclaim- 
ing, ' 'Tis he, 'tis he ! — the fiend ! — save me, save 
me !' The bitterness of death seemed to invade 
my heart when I heard this unaccountable excla- 
mation. I gasped for breath, and cold drops of 
agony rolled from my temples. I ventured to ap- 
proach the bed. I took her burning hand within 
my own, and pressed it to my heart. She again 
fixed her eyes upon me solemnly, and said, * Know 
you whom you embrace ? Miserable man, has not 
the universal rumour reached thine ear?' 

** ' Dearest AdeUne,' I said, * for the last ten 



?ROSE AND POETRY. 463 

days I have been stretched upon the bed of deli- 
rium and insensibility. Rumour, however trum- 
p'et-tongued to other ears, has been dumb to mine.* 

" * You call me Adeline/ she said, * is that all?' 

** * The hour,' I answered, *is at length arrived, 
I thought it would be a less melancholy one, when 
thou wert to tell me that other name, ere thou ex- 
changed'st it for ever/ 

" * Know then,' said she, rising up in the bed 
with an unusual effort, in which all her remaining 
strength seemed to be concentrated, ' that my name 
is Adeline Brandt !' 

*' For an instant she fixed her dark eyes upon 
my face, which grew cold and pallid as her own ; 
then the film of death came over them, and her 
head sank back upon her pillow, from which it ne- 
ver rose again. 

" Weak, and sickly, and stricken, as it were, with 
a thunderbolt, I know not how I preserved my re- 
collection and reason at that moment. I remem- 
ber, however, looking from the chamber window, 
and seeing the Comet shining brightly, although 
just on the verge of the horizon ; I turned to the 
dead face of Adeline, and thought of those ill- 
omened lines, — 

^ The Comet that's born in the belt of Orion, 
Whose cradle it gilds, gilds the place they shall die on.' 



464 . MISCELLANEOUS 

I looked again, and the Comet was jnst departing 
from the heavens ; it's fiery train was no longer visi- 
ble ; and in an instant after the nucleus disappeared. 
** I have but little to add in explanation . I learned 
that, on the evening of our meeting, the unfortu- 
nate Brandt, who had carried on his exploits at a 
distance, knowing that a price was set upon his 
head, had fled to the house where his wife and 
daughter lived, and between whom and him no 
suspicion of any connexion existed, resolving, if 
he escaped his present danger, to give up his pe- 
rilous courses ; but that he found those two females 
in such a state of wretchedness and starvation, 
that he rushed out, and committed the act for which 
he forfeited his life. Had I but asked Adeline 
her name, this fatal event would not have hap- 
pened ; for I should most assuredly have removed 
her to another dwelling, and provided in some 
way for her Father's safety ; or, had not the tradi- 
tionary verses restrained us from mentioning our 
attachment to any one until the hour of our nuptials, 
I should have revealed it to the Bandit, and so 
taken away from him every inducement for follow- 
ing his lawless occupation. Ill news is not long in 
spreading. Adeline heard of her Father's death, 
and that I was the occasion of it, a few hours after 
it took place. The same cause which sent her to 



PROSE AND POETRY* 465 

her death-bed roused her Mother from the couch 
of lethargy and inaction on which she had lain for 
so many years; and I found that she was the 
wretched old woman whom I had seen attending 
the last moments of her daughter. 

" The remainder of ray history has little in it to 
interest you. I left the University, and retired to 
ray Father's castle, where I shut myself up, and 
lived a very recluse life, until his death, which 
happened a few years afterwards, obliged me to 
exert myself in the arrangement of my family af- 
fairs. The lapse of years gradually alleviated, 
although it could not eradicate, my sorrow ; but 
when I found myself approaching my fortieth year, 
and knew that the Comet would very soon make 
it's re-appearance, I could not bear the idea of 
looking again upon the fatal Planet which had 
caused me so much uneasiness. I therefore re- 
solved to travel in some country where it would 
not be visible ; and having received a pressing in- 
vitation from a friend in England to visit his native 
land, accompanied by an intimation that his house, 
at G. was entirely at my service, I did not hesitate 
to accept his offer. You know something of my 
adventures there, especially of the consternation 
which I occasioned by laying down Gas-pipes 
round my friend's house, in consequence of a 

X 3 



466 MISCELLANEOUS 

letter which I had received from him, requesting 
me to take the trouble to superintend the work- 
men. Twenty more years have now rolled over 
my head; the Comet has re-appeared, and I can 
gaze on it with comparative indifference ; and as 
it is just about taking it's leave of us, suppose 
we walk out and enjoy the brightness of it's de- 
parting glory." 

I acceded to the old Gentleman's proposal, and 
lent him the assistance of my arm during our walk. 
** Yonder fence," said he, '* surrounds my friend 
Berger's garden, in which there is an eminence 
from which we shall get a better view. The gate 
is a long way round, but I think you, and even I, 
shall find but little difficulty in leaping this fence ; 
I will indemnify you for the trespass :" and he 
had scarcely spoken before he was on the other 
side of it. I followed him, and we proceeded at 
a brisk pace towards a beautiful shrubbery, on an 
elevated spot in the centre of the garden. M. 
von Schwartzmann led the way, but he had scarcely 
reached the summit before I heard an explosion, 
and saw him fall upon the ground. I hastened to 
his assistance, and found him weltering in his 
blood. I raised him, and supported him in my 
arms, but he shook his head, saying, '* No, no, 
my friend, it is all in vain ! the influence of that 



PROSE AND POETRY. 467 j 



malignant Star has prevailed over me. I forgot 'j 

that my friend Berger had lately planted spring- j 

guns in his grounds. But it is Destiny, and not i 
they, which has destroyed me. Farewell ! — 

farewell!" J 

In these words his last breath was spent ; his 
eyes, while they remained open, were fixed upon 

the Comet, and the instant they closed, the ill- j 

boding planet sunk beneath the horizon. i 

'' FoEGET Me Not/* 1827. j 



468 MISCELLANEOUS 



THE MAGICIAN'S VISITER. 



It was at the close of a fine autumnal day, and 
the shades of evening were beginning to gather 
over the city of Florence, when a low quick rap 
was heard at the door of Cornelius Agrippa, and 
shortly afterwards a Stranger was introduced into 
the apartment in which the Philosopher was sitting 
at his studies. 

The Stranger, although finely formed, and of 
courteous demeanour, had a certain indefinable 
air of mystery about him, which excited awe, if, 
indeed, it had not a repellent effect. His years it 
was difficult to guess, for the marks of youth and 
age were blended in his features in a most extra- 
ordinary manner. There was not a furrow in his 
cheek, nor a wrinkle on his brow, and his large 
black eye beamed with all the brilliancy and viva- 
city of youth ; but his stately figure was bent, ap- 
parently beneath the weight of years; his hair, 



PROSE AND POETRY. 469 

although thick and clustering", was grey ; and 
though his voice was feeble and tremulous, yet it's 
tones were of the most ravishing and soul-searching 
melody. His costume was that of a Florentine 
gentleman ; but he held a staff like that of a Pal- 
mer in his hand, and a silken sash, inscribed with 
oriental characters, was bound around his waist. 
His face was deadly pale, but every feature of it 
was singularly beautiful, and it's expression was 
that of profound wisdom, mingled with poignant 
sorrow. 

" Pardon me, learned Sir," said he, addressing 
the Philosopher, " but your fame has travelled into 
all lands, and has reached all ears ; and I could 
not leave the fair City of Florence without seeking 
an interview with one who is it's greatest boast 
and ornament." 

" You are right welcome, Sir," returned Agrippa ; 
*' but I fear that your trouble and curiosity will be 
but ill repaid. I am simply one, who, instead of 
devoting my days, as do the wise, to the acquire- 
ment of wealth and honour, have passed long 
years in painful and unprofitable study ; in endea- 
vouring to unravel the secrets of Nature, and 
initiating myself in the mysteries of the Occult 
Sciences." 

** Talkest thou of long years!" echoed the 



470 MISCELLANEOUS 

Stranger, and a melancholy smile played over his 
features : ** thou, who hast scarcely seen fourscore 
since thou leffst thy cradle, and for whom the 
quiet grave is now waiting, eager to clasp thee in 
her sheltering arms ! I was among the tombs 
to-day, the still and solemn tombs : I saw them 
smiling in the last beams of the setting sun. When 
I was a boy, I used to wish to be like that sun ; 
his career was so long, so bright, so glorious ! But 
to-night I thought * it is better to slumber among 
those tombs than to be like him/ To-night he 
sank behind the hills, apparently to repose, but to- 
morrow he must renew his course, and run the 
same dull and unvaried, but toilsome and unquiet, 
race. There is no grave for him ! and the night 
and morning dews are the tears that he sheds over 
his tyrannous destiny." 

Agrippa was a deep observer and admirer of 
external nature and of all her phenomena, and had 
often gazed upon the scene which the Stranger 
described, but the feelings and ideas which it 
awakened in the mind of the latter were so diffe- 
rent from any thing which he had himself expe- 
rienced, that he could not help, for a season, gazing 
upon him in speechless wonder. His guest, how- 
ever, speedily resumed the discourse. 

" But I trouble you, I trouble you; then to 



PROSE AND POETRY. 471 

my purpose in making you this visit. I have heard 
strange tales of a wondrous Mirror, which your 
potent art has enabled you to construct, in which 
whosoever looks may see the distant, or the dead, 
on whom he is desirous again to fix his gaze. My 
eyes see nothing in this outward visible world 
which can be pleasing to their sight : the grave has 
closed over all I loved ; and Time has carried down 
it's stream every thing that once contributed to my 
enjoyment. The world is a vale of tears : but 
amongst all the tears v/hich water that sad valley, 
not one is shed for me ! the fountain in my own 
heart, too, is dried up. I would once again look 
upon the face which I loved ; I would see that 
eye more bright, and that step more stately, than 
the antelope's ; that brow, the broad smooth page 
on which God had inscribed his fairest characters. 
I would gaze on all I loved, and all I lost. Such 
a gaze would be dearer to my heart than all that 
the world has to offer me ; except the grave ! ex- 
cept the grave ! except the grave !" 

The passionate pleading of the Stranger had such 
an effect upon Agrippa, who was not used to ex- 
hibit his miracle of art to the eyes of all who desired 
to look in it, although he was often tempted by 
exorbitant presents and high honom*s to do so. 



472 MISCELLANEOUS 

that he readily consented to grant the request of 
his extraordinary visiter. 

" Whom would'st thou see 1 " he enquired. 

" My child ! my own sweet Miriam! " answered 
the Stranger. 

Cornelius immediately caused every ray of the 
light of Heaven to be excluded from the chamber, 
placed the Stranger on his right hand, and com- 
menced chaunting, in a low soft tone, and in a 
strange language, some lyrical verses, to which the 
Stranger thought he heard occasionally a response ; 
but it was a sound so faint and indistinct that he 
hardly knew whether it existed any where but in 
his own fancy. As Cornelius continued his chaunt, 
the room gradually became illuminated, but whence 
the light proceeded it was impossible to discover. 
At length the Stranger plainly perceived a large 
Mirror, which covered the whole of the extreme 
end of the apartment, and over the surface of 
which a dense haze, or cloud, seemed to be rapidly 
passing. 

** Died she in wedlock's holy bands ?" enquired 
Cornelius. 

'^ She was a virgin, spotless as the snow." 

'* How many years have passed away since the 
grave closed over her? " 



PROSE AND POETRY. 473 

A cloud gathered on the Stranger's brow, and 
he answered somewhat impatiently, " Many, 
many ! more than I have now time to number/' 

'* Nay," said Agrippa, " but I must know; for 
every ten years that have elapsed since her death 
once must I wave this wand ; and when I have 
waved it for the last time you will see her figure in 
yon Mirror." 

*' Wave on, then," said the Stranger, and groaned 
bitterly, " wave on ; and take heed that thou be 
not weary." 

Cornelius Agrippa gazed on his strange guest 
with something of anger, but he excused his want 
of courtesy, on the ground of the probable extent 
of his calamities. He then waved his magic wand 
many times, but, to his consternation, it seemed to 
have lost it's virtue. Turning again to the Stranger, 
he exclaimed, ** Who, and what art thou, man ? 
Thy presence troubles me. According to all the 
rules of my art, this wand has already described 
twice two hundred years : still has the surface of 
the Mirror experienced no alteration. Say, do'st 
thou mock me, and did no such person ever exist 
as thou hast described to me ? " 

'* Wave on, wave on!" was the stem and only 
reply which this interrogatory extracted from the 
Stranger. 



474 MISCELLANEOUS 

The curiosity of Agrippa, although he was him- 
self a dealer in wonders, began now to be excited, 
and a mysterious feeling of awe forbade him to 
desist from waving his wand, much as he doubted 
the sincerity of his visiter. As his arm grew slack, 
he heard the deep solemn tones of the Stranger, 
exclaiming, '* Wave on, wave on ! " and at length, 
after his wand, according to the calculations of his 
art, had described a period of nearly fifteen hun- 
dred years, the cloud cleared away from the surface 
of the Mirror, and the Stranger, with an excla- 
mation of delight, arose, and gazed rapturously 
upon the scene which was there represented. 

An exquisitely rich and romantic prospect was 
before him : in the distance arose lofty mountains 
crowned with cedars ; a rapid stream rolled in the 
centre, and in the fore-ground were seen camels 
grazing ; a rill trickling by, in which some sheep 
were quenching their thirst; and a lofty palm-tree, 
beneath whose shade a young female of exquisite 
beauty, and richly habited in the costume of the 
East, was sheltering herself from the rays of the 
noontide sun. 

" 'Tis she ! 'tis she !" shouted the Stranger, and 
he was rushing towards the Mirror, but was pre- 
vented by Cornelius, who said,— 

" Forbear, rash man, to quit this spot ! with 



PROSE AND POETRY. 475 

each step that thou advancest towards the Mirror, 
the image will become fainter, and should'st thou 
approach too near, it will entirely vanish." 

Thus warned, he resumed his station, but his 
agitation was so excessive, that he was obliged to 
lean on the arm of the Philosopher for support ; 
whilst, from time to time, he uttered incoherent 
expressions of wonder, delight, and lamentation. 
'' 'Tis she ! 'tis she ! even as she looked while 
living ! How beautiful she is ! Miriam, my child ! 
can'st thou not not speak to me? By Heaven, 
she moves ! she smiles ! Oh ! speak to me a single 
word ! or only breathe, or sigh ! Alas ! all's silent : 
dull and desolate as this cold heart ! Again that 
smile ! that smile, the remembrance of which a thou- 
sand winters have not been able to freeze up in my 
heart ! Old man, it is in vain to hold me ! I must, 
will clasp her ! " 

As he uttered these last words, he rushed franticly 
towards the Mirror ; the scene represented within 
it faded away ; the cloud gathered again over it's 
surface, and the Stranger sunk senseless to the 
earth ! 

When he recovered his consciousness, he found 
himself in the arms of Agrippa, who was chafing 
his temples and gazing on him with looks of fear 
and wonder. He immediately rose on his feet, 



476 MISCELLANEOUS 

with restored strength, and, pressing the hand of 
his host, he said, " Thanks, thanks, for thy cour- 
tesy and thy kindness ; and for the sweet but pain- 
ful sight which thou hast presented to my eyes." 

As he spake these words, he put a purse into 
the hand of Cornelius, but the latter returned it, 
saying, '* Nay, nay, keep thy gold, friend. I 
know not, indeed, that a Christian man dare take 
it ; but, be that as it may, I shall esteem myself 
sufficiently repaid, if thou wilt tell me who thou 
art." 

"■ Behold ! " said the Stranger, pointing to a 
large historical picture which hung on the left hand 
of the room. 

" I see," said the Philosopher, " an exquisite 
work of art, the production of one of our best and 
earliest Artists, representing our Saviour carrying 
his Cross." 

*' But look again!" said the Stranger, fixing 
his keen dark eyes intently on him, and pointing 
to a figure on the left hand of the picture. 

Cornelius gazed, and saw with wonder what he 
had not observed before, the extraordinary resem- 
blance which this figure bore to the Stranger, of 
whom, indeed it might be said to be a portrait. 
" That," said Cornelius, with an emotion of horror, 
" is intended to represent the unhappy infidel who 



PROSE AND POETRY. 477 

smote the divine Sufferer for not walking faster ; 
and was, therefore, condemned to walk the earth 
himself, until the period of that sufferer's second 
coming. 'Tis I ! 'tis I !" exclaimed the Stranger ; 
and rushing out of the house, rapidly disappeared. 
Then did Cornelius Agrippa know that he had 
been conversing with the Wandering Jew ! 

" Forget Me Not," 1828, 



478 MISCELLANEOUS 



THE HOURI. 

A PERSIAN TALE. 



In the 414th year of the Hegira, Shah Abbas Se- 
lim reigned in the kingdom of Iraum. He was a 
young and an accomplished Prince, who had dis- 
tinguished himself alike by his valour in the field, 
and by his wisdom in the cabinet. Justice was 
fairly and equally administered thoughout his do- 
minions ; the nation grew wealthy and prosperous 
under his sway ; and the neighbouring potentates, 
all of whom either feared his power, or admired 
his character, were ambitious of being numbered 
among the friends and allies of Abbas Selim. 
Amidst all these advantages, a tendency to pen- 
siveness and melancholy, which had very early 
marked his disposition, began to assume an abso- 
lute dominion over him. He avoided the plea- 
sures of the chase, the banquet, and the Harem ; 
and would shut himself up for days and weeks in 



PROSE AND POETRY. 479 

his Library, the most valuable and extensive col- 
lection of Oriental literature then extant, where he 
passed his time principally in the study of the Occult 
Sciences, and in the perusal of the works of the 
Magicians and the Astrologers. One of the most 
remarkable features of his character was the indiffe- 
rence with which he regarded the beautiful females, 
Circassians, Georgians, and Franks, who thronged 
his Court, and who tasked their talents and charms 
to the utmost to find favour in the eyes of the Shah. 
Exclamations of fondness for some unknown object 
would, nevertheless, often burst from his lips in 
the midst of his profoundest reveries ; and, during 
his slumbers, he was frequently heard to murmur 
expressions of the most passionate love. Such of 
his subjects whose offices placed them near his 
person, were deeply afflicted at the symptoms which 
they observed, and feared that they indicated an 
aberration of reason ; but when called upon to give 
any directions, or take any step for the manage- 
ment of the affairs of the nation, he still exhibited 
his wonted sagacity and wisdom, and excited the 
praise and wonder of all. 

He had been lately observed to hold long and 
frequent consultations with the Magicians. The 
kingdom had been scoured from east to west in 
search of the most skilful and learned men of this 



480 MISCELLANEOUS 

class : but whatever might be the questions which 
Abbas SeUm propounded, it seemed that none of 
them could give satisfactory answers. His melan- 
choly deepened, and his fine manly form was daily 
wasting under the influence of some unknown ma- 
lady. The only occupations which seemed at all 
to soothe him, were singing and playing on his Dul- 
cimer. The tunes were described, by those who 
sometimes contrived to catch a few notes of them, 
to be singularly wild and original, and such as 
they had never heard before; and a Courtier, 
more daring than the rest, once ventured so near 
the royal privacy as to be able to distinguish the 
words of a Song, which were to the following 
effect : ~ 



Sweet Spirit ! ne'er did I behold 
Thy ivory neck, thy locks of gold ; 
Or gaze into thy full dark eye ; 
Or on thy snowy bosom lie ; 
Or take in mine thy small white hand ; 
Or bask beneath thy smilings bland ; 
Or walk, enraptured, by the side 
Of thee, my own immortal Bride ! 

I see thee not ; yet oft' I hear 
Thy soft voice whispering in mine ear ; 
And, when the evening breeze I seek, 
I feel thy kiss upon my cheek ; 



PROSE AND POETRY. 481 

And wlien the moon-beams softly fall 

On hill, and tower, and flower-crown'd wall, 

Methinks the patriarch's dream I see, 

The steps that lead to Heaven and Thee ! 

I've heard thee wake, with touch refined, 
The viewless harp-strings of the wind ; 
When on my ears their soft tones fell, 
Sweet as the voice of Israfel.* 
I've seen thee, midst the lightning's sheen. 
Lift up for me Heaven's cloudy screen, 
And give one glimpse, one transient glare. 
Of the full blaze of gloi-y there. 

Oft' 'midst my wanderings wild and wide, 
I know that thou art by my side ; 
For flowers breathe sweeter 'neath thy tread, 
And suns burn brighter o'er thy head ; 
And though thy steps so noiseless steal ; 
Though thou did'st ne'er thy form reveal, 
My throbbing heart, £ind pulses high. 
Tell me, sweet Spirit ! thou art nigh. 

Oh ! for the hour, the happy hour, 
"When Azrael'st wings shall to thy bower 
Bear my enfranchised Soul away, 
Unfetter'd with these chains of clay ! 
For what is he, whom men so fear, 
Azrael, the solemn ajid severe ! 



* The Angel of Music. t The Angel of Death. 

Y 



482 MISCELLANEOUS 

What, but the white-robed Priest is he. 
Who weds my happy Soul to thee ? 

Then shall we rest in bowers that bloom 

With more than Araby's perfume ; 

And gaze on scenes so fair and bright, 

Thought never soar'd so proud a height ; 

And list to many a sweeter note 

Than swells th' enamour'd BulbuFs throat; 

And one melodious Ziraleet* 

Through Heaven's eternal year repeat ! " 

One evening, when the Shah was thus occupied, 
his Prime Minister and favourite, Prince Ismael, 
introduced into his apartment a venerable man, 
whose white hair, long flowing beard, and wan 
and melancholy, but highly intellectual features, 
failed not to arrest the attention, and command 
the respect, of all who beheld him. His garments 
were plain and simple, even to coarseness ; but 
he was profusely decorated with jewels, apparently 
of considerable value ; and bore a long white wand 
in his hand. 

*'Ihave at length, Oh King!" said the Mi- 
nister, " met with the famous Achmet Hassan, 
who professes, that if it be in the power of any 



A Song of rejoicing. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 483 

•^'.ortal to procure the gratification of your High- 
ness's wishes, that power resides in him." 

** Let him enter," said the Shah. The Minister 
made an obeisance, introduced the Sage, and re- 
tired. 

*^ Old man," said Abbas Shah, ** thou knowest 
wherefore I have sought thee, and what I have 
desired of thee ? " 

" Prince," said Achmet, " thou would'st see 
the Houri, the Queen of thy Bower of Paradise ; 
her who, in preference to all the other dark- eyed 
daughters of Heaven, will greet thee there, and 
shall be thy chosen companion in those blissful 
regions.'* 

'' Thou sayest it ! " said the Shah. '^ Can thy 
boasted Art procure me a sight, be it even transi- 
tory as the lightning's flash, of that heavenly 
being?" 

** King of Iraun !" said the Sage, " the hea- 
venly Houris are of two different natures. They 
are, for the most part, of a peculiar creation formed 
to inhabit those bowers ; but a few are sinless and 
beautiful virgins ; natives of this lower world ; 
who, after death, are endowed with tenfold charms, 
which surpass even those of the native daughters 
of Paradise. If thy immortal Bride be of the 
former nature, she is beyond the reach of my Art; 

v2 



484 MISCELLANEOUS 

but if she be of the latter, and have not yet quitted 
our world, I can call her Spirit before thee, and 
thine eyes may be gratified by gazing upon her, 
although it will be only for a moment, transitory, 
as thou hast said, as the lightning's flash !" 

** Try, then, thy potent Art," said the Prince. 
*' Thou hast wound up my Spirit to a pitch of in- 
tense desire. Let me gaze upon her, if it be but 
for an instant." 

" Prince! " said the Sage, fixing his dark bright 
eye upon the Shah, ** hope not to possess her upon 
Earth. Any attempt at discovering her abode, or 
making her thine own, will be disastrous to you 
both. Promise me that thou will not think of any 
such enterprise." 

'* I promise thee any thing, — every thing ! But 
haste thee, good Achmet, haste thee ; for my heart 
is full, even to overflowing." 

The Sage with his wand then described a circle 
round the Prince, within which he placed several 
boxes of frankincense, and other precious spices ; 
and afterwards kindled them. A light thin cloud 
of the most odorous fragrance began to diff*use 
itself over the apartment ; Achmet bowed his head 
to the ground repeatedly during this ceremony, 
and waved his wand, uttering many sounds in a 
a nguage with which the Shah was unacquainted. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 485 

At length, as the cloud began to grow more dense, 
the old man drew himself up to his utmost height, 
leaned his right hand on his wand, which he rested 
on the floor, and, in a low, solemn tone, uttered an 
Incantation, which seemed to be a metrical compo- 
sition, but was in the same unknown language. It 
lasted several minutes ; and while he was pronoun- 
cing it, the cloud, which was spread over the whole 
apartment, seemed gradually gathering together, 
and forming a condensed body. An unnatural, 
but brilliant light then pervaded the chamber, and 
the cloud was seen resolving itself into the re- 
semblance of a human shape, until at length the 
Prince saw, or fancied that he saw, a beautiful 
female figure standing before him. His own sur- 
prise was not greater than that of the old man, 
who gazed upon the phantom he had raised, and 
trembled as he gazed. It appeared to be a young 
female, about fifteen years of age. She was tall, 
and her form exhibited the most wonderful sym- 
metry. Her eyes were large, bright, and black ; 
her complexion was as though it had borrowed the 
combined hues of the ruby and the pearl, being 
of an exquisite white and red. Her lips' and her 
teeth each exhibited one of these colours in per- 
fection; and her long, dark hair was crowned with 
flowers, and flowed in glossy ringlets down to her 



486 MISCELLANEOUS 

waist. She was dressed in a long* flowing robe of 
dazzling whiteness ; she neither moved nor spoke : 
only once the Prince thought that she smiled upon 
him, and then the figure instantly vanished ; the 
preternatural light left the apartment, and the mild 
moon-beams again streamed through the open 
lattice's. 

Before the exclamation of joy which was formed 
in the Prince's bosom could reach his lips, it was 
changed into a yell of disappointment. '^ Old 
man ! " he said, " thou triflest with me ! thou hast 
presented this vision to my eyes only that thou 
might'st withdraw it immediately. Call back that 
lovely form, or, by Mahomet ! thou shalt exchange 
thy head for the privilege which thou hast chosen 
to exercise of tormenting Abbas Selim." 

** Is it thus, Oh King!" said Achmet, "that 
thou rewardest the efforts made by thy faithful sub- 
jects to fulfil thy wishes ? I have tasked my Art to 
it's utmost extent : to call back that vision, or to 
present it again to thine eyes, is beyond my skill." 

" But she lives ! she breathes ! she is an inha- 
bitant of this world ! " said the Prince. 

" Even so," returned the other. 

<* Then I'll search all Iraun ; I'll despatch emis- 
saries over all the world, that wherever she be, 
she may be brought hither to fill up the vacuum 



PROSE AND PQETRY. 487 

in my heart, and to share the throne of Abbas 
Selim ! " 

" The instant," said Achmet, ** that your High- 
ness's eyes meet hers, her fate is sealed ; she will 
not long remain an inhabitant of Earth. It is 
written in the Book of Fate that she shall not be 
the bride of mortal man." 

*' Death, traitor ! " said the Monarch ; am I 
not the Shah? who shall gainsay my will? what 
shall oppose it ? " 

** The will of Heaven!" replied the Sage, 
calmly. ** The irrevocable decrees of Destiny." 

** Away! avaunt! thou drivelling idiot!" said 
Selim, ** let me not see thee more I " 

The Shah's maladies, both mental and bodily, 
increased alarmingly after this event. The lovely 
phantom haunted him sleeping and waking. He 
lost all appetite and strength ; and appeared to be 
fast sinking into the grave. At length he bethought 
himself, that if he could, from memory, sketch 
the features which he had beheld, he might possibly 
thence derive some consolation. He possessed some 
talent for drawing; his remembrance of the form 
and features was most vivid and distinct; and, 
guiding his pencil with his heart rather than his 
hand, he succeeded in producing a most extraor- 
dinary likeness. He then summoned into his pre- 



488 MISCELLANEOUS 

sence a skilful and accomplished limner, in whose 
hands he deposited the sketch, and, describing to 
him the colour of the hair, eyes, and complexion, 
of the original, desired him to paint a portrait. 

The Artist gazed upon the sketch, and listened 
to the description with profound attention, and 
evident surprise. *' Surely," said he, *' I have 
seen her whose features are here delineated. In- 
deed they are features which are not easily mis- 
taken, for she is beautiful as one of the damsels 
of Paradise." 

" Sayest thou so ?" said the Monarch, starting 
from his seat, while he tore from his turban some 
jewels of inestimable value, which he thrust into 
the Painter's hand. ** Knowest thou where to 
find her r 

** She lives in the southern suburbs," answered 
the limner. *' Her name is Selima, and her Fa- 
ther is a poor but learned man, who is constantly 
buried in his studies, and is unconscious of the 
value of the gem which is hidden under his hum- 
ble roof." 

** Haste thee, good Ali, haste thee ! bring her 
hither 1 Let no difficulties or dangers impede 
thee, and there is not a favour in the power of the 
Monarch of Iraun to grant which thou shalt ask in 
vain." 



PROSE AND POETRY. 489 

Ali flew rather than ran to the abode of his 
fair friend, in whose welfare he had always taken 
a Hvely interest. He knocked at the door, which 
was opened by the lovely Selima herself. 

'* Sweet Selima," he said, '* I have strange 
news for thee." 

*' Speak it then," she answered smilingly ; 
** be it bad or good, the sooner I hear it the 
better." 

" I have a message for thee from the Shah." 

*' The Shah !" she said, and her eyes sparkled 
with a mysterious expression of intelligence and 
wonder; but she did not, extraordinary as was 
the information, appear to entertain the slightest 
doubt of it's veracity. " 'Tis wondrous strange !" 

" 'Tis true," said the limner. " He placed in 
my hands a sketch for a female portrait, in which 
I instantly recognised your features." 

*' It is but a few days ago," said she, " that I 
had an extraordinary dream. Methought I was 
in an apartment of surprising extent and magnifi- 
cence. A cloud of fragrant odours filled the 
room ; the cloud became gradually condensed, and 
then assumed the form of a young man of most 
majestic form and handsome features. Although 
I had never seen the Shah, I soon knew, by his 
pale, proud brow, so sad and yet so beautiful ; 

y3 



490 MISCELLANEOUS 

his bright, sparkling blue eye; his tall, stately 
form ; and his regal gait ; that this could be none 
other than Abbas Selira. He smiled sweetly upon 
me ; he took my hand in his ; but as his lips ap- 
proached mine I woke, and saw only the cold 
moon-beams gilding my chamber." 

** Sweet Selima ! why have I never heard of 
this before ?" 

" I told it all to my Father," said she ; " but 
he frowned upon me, and bade me think of it no 
more ; and to tell my dream to no one. But thy 
strange message has made me violate his command. 
I have thought of nothing but Abbas Selim since. 
How happy ought the nation to be whom he go- 
verns; and, above all, how happy the maiden 
whom he loves !" 

" Then art thou, my Selima, supremely happy," 
said the Painter ; "for of thee is he enamoured 
to desperation. Thou must accompany me imme- 
diately to the Palace." 

In the mean time the Shah paced his apartment 
in an agony of impatience. *' Curse on this lin- 
gering limner !" he exclaimed ; ** has he combined 
with the Magian to drive me to distraction ? May 
every vile peasant press to his heart the being 
v/hom he adores, and am I, the lord of this vast 
empire^ to sigh in vain, and to be continually tor- 



PROSE AND POETRY. 491 

merited with faint and momentary glimpses of the 
heaven from which I am debarred ?" 

He had scarcely uttered these words, when the 
private entrance to his apartment, to which he had 
given the Painter a passport, opened, and his 
messenger entered, leading his fair companion by 
the hand. No sooner did the Monarch's eyes en- 
counter those of Selima, than he instantly knew 
that he was in the real, substantial presence of her 
whose phantom he had beheld. His wonder and 
delight knew no bounds, nor will the power of 
language suffice to describe them. He pressed 
to his heart the object for which he had so long 
panted. Health and strength appeared to be sud- 
denly restored to him ; new life seemed rushing 
through his veins ; and his buoyant step and 
elastic tread seemed to belong to a world less 
gross and material than that in which he dwelt. 
When the first paroxysm of his raptures was over, 
he summoned the chief Imaum into his presence, 
and gave him orders to follow him into the Mosque 
attached to the Palace, for the purpose of imme- 
diately celebrating his nuptials with Selima. 

The Priest gazed intently on the Bride, and his 
features became strangely agitated. «* The will 
of Abbas Selim," he said, ** is the law of his 
faithful subjects ; but if I have read the Koraun 



492 MISCELLANEOUS 

aright, and if my studies have not been idly pur- 
sued, the finger of Death is on yon fair maiden^ 
and her nuptials with the Shah will but accelerate 
the approach of Azrael." 

*' Dotard !" said the Prince ; and he gazed 
upon Selima, whose features glowed with all the 
hues of beauty and health : " tell not to me thy 
idle dreams, but perform thine office, and be si- 
lent." 

The chidden Priest obeyed the last injunction 
of his Sovereign, and, with head depressed and 
folded arms, followed him and his Bride to the 
Mosque ; which was hastily prepared for the cele- 
bration of these unexpected nuptials. Heavily 
and falteringly he pronounced the rites, which 
were just on the point of being concluded, when 
a man rushed into the Mosque, and, with frantic 
and threatening gestures, placed himself between 
the Bride and Bridegroom. It was Achmet Hassan. 

" Forbear, forbear!" he cried, '* or Allah's 
curse light on you !" 

" It is the traitorous Magian," said the Shah. 
** Villain ! would'st thou beard thy Sovereign even 
at his nuptial hour ?" 

As he spoke, he unsheathed his scymitar, and 
rushed towards Achmet. " Save him ; spare 
him!" shrieked the Bride; ** it is my Father!" 



PROSE AND POETRY. 493 

and rushing between them, the Shah's weapon 
pierced her to the heart, and she sank lifeless to 
the earth. 

All were struck mute and motionless with 
horror at this fatal event. When they had some- 
what recovered from their stupor, every eye was 
fixed upon the Shah. Still, and cold, and silent 
as a statue, he occupied the same place as at the 
moment of this fearful catastrophe. His eyes 
glared fixedly and unmeaningly ; and his lips and 
cheeks were of an ashly paleness. He returned 
no answer to the enquiries which were made of 
him, and the import of which it was evident that 
he did not comprehend. In fact, it was clear that 
reason had fled from the once highly endowed 
mind of Abbas Selim ; and that the reign of one 
of the greatest and most highly-accomplished 
Princes who had ever filled the throne of Persia 
was terminated. 

In a state of listlessness and inanity he continued 
for above a twelvemonth. A few apartments of 
the Palace were all that remained to him of his 
once mighty empire, and the sceptre passed into 
the hands of his Brother His most faithful and 
constant attendant was the unhappy Achmet 
Hassan, whom he had rendered childless ; and on 
whose bosom he breathed his latest sigh. As the 



494 MISCELLANEOUS 

hour of death approached, his intellects seemed 
to return ; but his malady had so entirely exhausted 
his strength, that he could not utter a syllable. 
Once, from the motion of his lips, it was supposed 
that he was endeavouring to pronounce the name 
of Selima ; then a faint smile illumined his fea- 
tures, while he pointed to the casement, and the 
deep blue sky which was seen through it, and his 
enfranchised Spirit fled to the bowers of Paradise. 

" Forget Me Not." 1829. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 495 



STANZAS. 



I wander'd by her side in Life's sweet Spring; 

When all the world seem'd beautiful and young ; 
When Hope was truth, and she a peerless thing, 

Round whom my heart's best, fondest wishes clung : 
Her cheek was fann'd, not smitten, by Time's wing ; 

Her heart Love had drawn sweets from, but ne'er 
stung ; 
And, as in Youth's, and Beauty's, light she moved, 
All bless'd her ! — she was lovely and beloved ! 

I stood by her again, when her cheek bloom'd 
Brightlier than aye, but wore an ominous hue ; 

And her eye's light was dimm'd not, but assumed 
A fiercer, ghastlier, but intenser blue : 

And her wan cheek proclaim'd that she was doom'd, 
And her worn frame her Soul seem'd bursting 
through ; 

And friends and lovers were around her sighing, 

And Life's last sands were ebbing,— she was dying ! 

I stood by her once more ; and, bending down, 

Seal'd on her lips a pledge, which they return'd not ; 

And press'd her to my bosom, but her own 

With Life's v/arm fires, to mine responsive, burn'd 
not; 



496 MISCELLANEOUS 

And clasp'd her hand, but, as in days by gone, 

Her heart's thoughts from it's eloquent pulse I learn'd 
not; 
Light from her eye, hue from her cheek, had fled. 
And her warm heart was frozen ;— she was dead ! 

" Monthly Magazine." 



LINES 

Written after visiting a Scene in Switzerland. 

Thou glorious scene ! my wondering eye 

Hath gazed on thee at last, 
And by the proud reality 

Found Fancy's dreams surpass'd. 

Twas like the vision which of old 

To the Saint seer was given, 
When the sky open'd, and behold ! 

A Throne was set in Heaven.* 

* After this I looked, and behold a door was opened in 
Heaven, and the first voice which I heard, was as it were of 
a trumpet talking with me ; which said, " come up hither, 
and I will shew thee things which must be hereafter :" and 
immediately I was in the Spirit ; and behold, a Throne was set 
in Heaven, and One sat on the Throne : and He that sat was 
to look upon like a jasper, and a sardine stone. And before 
the Throne there was a sea of glass like unto crystal. 

Revelations, Chap. iv. v. 1,2, 3, and 6. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 497 

For there the everlasting Alps 

To the deep azure soar'd ; 
And the Sun on their snowy scalps 

A flood of glory pour'd. 

A present Deity, that Sun 

Above them seem'd to blaze ; 
Too strong and bright to gaze upon, 

Too glorious not to gaze. 

Below, the bright lake far and wide 

Spread like a crystal sea, 
Whose deep, calm waters seem'd to glide, 

Eternity, to thee ! 

Long, long, thou glorious scene ! shalt thou 

Within my memory dwell; 
More vivid and heart-gladd'ning now, 

Than when I mark'd thee well. 

More vivid and heart-gladd'ning too, 

Than the wild dreams I nursed 
Of thee and thine, ere on my view. 

Thy world of wonders burst. 

For Fancy's picture was a gleam. 

Weak, faint, and shado-\vy ; 
And brief, and passing as a dream. 

The gaze I bent on thee. 



498 MISCELLANEOUS 

But now, thou art a thing enshrined 

Within my inmost heart ; 
A part and portion of my mind, 

Which cannot thence depart. 

Deep woes may whelm, long years may roil, 

Their course o'er me in vain ; 
But fix'd for ever in my Soul 

Thine image shall remain. 

" Monthly Magazine. 



THE CRUSADERS' SONG. 

" Remember the Holy Sepulchre." 

Forget the land which gave ye birth ; 

Forget the womb that bore ye ; 
Forget each much-loved spot of earth ; 

Forget each dream of glory; 
Forget the friends that by your side, 

Stood firm as rocks unbroken ; 
Forget the late affianced Bride, 

And every dear love-token ; 
Forget the hope that in each breast, 

Glow'd like a smould'ring ember ; 
But still the Holy Sepulchre, 

Remember ! Oh remember ! 



PROSE AND POETRY. 499 

Remember all the vows ye've sworn 

At holy Becket's Altar ; 
Remember all the ills yeVe borne, 

And scorn'd to shrink or falter ; 
Remember every laurell'd field, 

Which saw the Crescent waving ; 
Remember when compell'd to yield, 

Uncounted numbers braving : 
Remember these, remember too 

The cause ye strive for, ever ; 
The Cross! the Holy Sepulchre! 

Forget, — forget them never ! 

By Him who in that Sepulchre 

Was laid in Death's cold keeping ; 
By Her who bore, who rear'd him, Her 

Who by that Cross sat weeping ; 
By those, whose blood so oft has cried 

Revenge for souls unshriven ! 
By those, whose sacred precepts guide 

The path to yonder Heaven ! 
From youth to age, from morn to eve, 

From Spring-tide to December; 
The Holy Sepulchre of Christ, 

Remember ! Oh remember ! - 

" Monthly Magazine." 



500 MISCELLANEOUS 



A SERENADE. 

Wake Lady! wake! the midnight Moon 
Sails through the cloudless skies of June ; 
The Stars gaze sweetly on the stream, 
Which in the brightness of their beam, 

One sheet of glory lies ; 
The glow-worm lends it's little light, 
And all that's beautiful and bright 
Is shining on our world to-night, 

Save thy bright eyes. 

Wake Lady ! wake ! the nightingale 
Tells to the Moon her love-lorn tale ; 
Now doth the brook that's hush'd by day, 
As through the vale she winds her way, 

In murmurs sweet rejoice ; 
The leaves, by the soft night-wind stirr'd. 
Are whispering many a gentle word. 
And all Earth's sweetest sounds are heard. 

Save thy sweet voice. 

Wake Lady! wake! thy lover waits, 
Thy steed stands saddled at the gates ; 
Here is a garment rich and rare. 
To wrap thee from the cold night-air ; 
Th' appointed hour is flown. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 501 

Danger and doubt have vanish'd quite, 
Our way before lies clear and right, 
And all is ready for the flight, 
Save thou alone ! 

Wake Lady ! wake ! I have a wreath 
Thy broad fair brow should rise beneath ; 
I have a ring that must not shine 
On any finger, Love ! but thine ; 

I've kept my plighted vow ; 
Beneath thy casement here I stand, 
To lead thee by thine own white hand, 
Far from this dull and captive strand, 

But where art thou ? 

Wake Lady ! wake ! She wakes ! she wakes I 
Through the green mead her course she takes ; 
And now her lover's arms enfold 
A prize more precious far than gold. 

Blushing like morning's ray; 
Now mount thy palfrey, Maiden kind ! 
Nor pause to cast one look behind. 
But swifter than the viewless wind, 

Away! away! 

" Monthly Magazine," 



502 MISCELLANEOUS 



SIMILITUDES. 

What can Love be liken'd to ? 

To the glittering, fleeting dew; 

To Heaven's bright, but fading- bow ; 

To the white, but melting snow ; 

To fleeting sounds, and viewless air; 

To all that's sweet, and false, and fair. 

Whereto can we liken Hope ? 

To the arch of Heaven's wide cope, 

Where birds sing sweetly, but are flying; 

Where days shine brightly, but are dying; 

So near, that we behold it ever ; 

So far that we shall reach it never. 

What can Beauty's semblance boast? 
The rose resembles her the most. 
For that's the sweetest among flowers. 
The brightest gem in Flora's bowers ; 
And all it's sweetness soon is past, 
And all it's brightness fades at last. 

And what are Dreams, that light night's gloom? 

Doves that, like Noah's, go and come, 

To teach the Soul this orb of clay 

Shall not it's prison be for aye ; 

That Time's dark waves shall soon subside, 

And brighter worlds spread far and wide. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 503 

And what's like Popular Reno-wn, 
When the destroyer it doth crown ? 
The honey which the wild bee's power 
Wrings from the bosom of the flower ; 
The harmless drones no honey bring, 
They win the sweets who wear the sting. 

And what is like Ambition's flight ? 

The eagle on his airy height ; 

On whose broad wings the sunbeam plays, 

Though from the world they hide his rays, 

Drinking the dew before it falls, 

For which the parch'd Earth vainly calls. 

'' MoxTHLY Magazine." 



THE RETURN OF THE GOLDEN AGE, 

Imitated from the French of the President Henaut, 

Wherefore regret those happy days, 

When Love was Lord the wide world o'er ? 
Our hearts from Time's dull tomb can raise 
Those days, and all their bliss restore : 
Let us love, let us love, and again behold 
The happy times of the Age of Gold. 



504 MISCELLANEOUS 

The flowers still flourish in our fields, 

As beautiful as then they were : 
The rose the same sweet odour yields ; 
The birds the same bright plumage bear : 
Let us love, let us love, and again behold 
The happy times of the Age of Gold. 

Still in the Spring the nightingale 

Sings in the flower-enamell'd meads ; 
And still the brooks, Love's same sweet tale, 
Whisper amidst the answering reeds. 

Let us love, let us love, and again behold 
The happy times of the Age of Gold. 

Still Zephyr breathes, and still doth he 

For Flora feel unchanging love ; 
And still doth the enamour'd bee 
Amongst the fair young lilies rove : 

Let us love, let us love, and again behold 
The happy times of the Age of Gold. 

" Monthly Magazine.' 



QUESTIONS ANSWERED 

Oh ! what is Pleasure, in whose chase. 
Life's one brief day is made a race, 
Of levity and lightness ? 



PROSE AND POETRY. 505 

A Star, to gaze on whose bright crown, 
We wait until the Sun goes down, 
And find, when it has o'er us shone, 

No warmth in all it's brightness. 

And what is Friendship ? but that flower. 
Which spreads it's leaves at daylight's hour, 

And closes them at eve ; 
Opening it's petals to the light. 
Sweet breathing, while the Sun shines bright, 
But closed to those who 'midst the night 

Of doubt and darkness grieve ? 

And what is Fame ? The smile that slays, 
The cup in which sweet poison plays, 

At best, the flowery wreath 
That's twined around the victim's head, 
When, 'midst sweet flowers around it spread, 
And harps' and timbrels' sound, 'tis led 

Melodiously to death. 

And w^hat are Hopes ? Gay butterflies. 
That on the breath of Fancy rise. 

Where'er the sun-beam lures them ; 
For ever, ever on the wang. 
Mocking our faint steps following, 
And if at last caught, perishing 

In the grasp that secures them. 



506 MISCELLANEOUS 

And our Affections, what are they ? 
Oh ! blossoms smiling on the spray. 

All beauty, and all sweetness. 
But which the canker may lay bare, 
Or rude hands from the branches tear, 
Or blighting winds leave withering there. 

Sad types of mortal fleetness. 

And what is Life itself ? A sail, 
With sometimes an auspicious gale, 

With some bright beams surrounded ; 
But oftener amidst tempests cast, 
The lowering sky, the howling blast. 
And 'whelm'd beneath the wave at last. 

Where never plummet sounded. 

" Monthly Magazine. 



TIME'S CHANGES. 

Theue was a Child, a helpless Child, 
Full of vain fears and fancies wild, 
That often wept, and sometimes smiled. 

Upon it's Mother's breast ; 
Feebly it's meanings stammer'd out, 
And totter'd tremblingly about. 
And knew no wider world mthout 

It's little home of rest. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 507 

There was a Boy, a light-heart Boy, 
One whom no troubles could annoy, 
Save some lost sport, or shatter'd toy, 

Forgotten in an hour ; 
No dark remembrance troubled him, 
No future fear his path could dim, 
But joy before his eyes would swim, 

And hope rise like a tower. 

There was a Youth, an ardent Youth, 
Full of high promise, courage, truth, 
He felt no scathe, he knew no ruth, 

Save Love's sweet wounds alone ; 
He thought but of two soft blue eyes, 
He sought no gain but Beauty's prize. 
And sweeter held Love's saddest sighs, 

Than Music's softest tone. 

There was a Man, a wary Man, 
Whose bosom nursed full many a plan 
For making life's contracted span 

A path of gain and gold ; 
And how to sow, and how to reap. 
And how to swell his shining heap, 
And how the wealth acquired, to keep 

Secure within it's fold. 

z2 



508 MISCELLANEOUS 

There was an old, old, grey-hair'd one^ 
On whom had fourscore winters done 
Their work appointed, and had spun 

His thread of life so fine, 
That scarce it's thin line could he seen, 
And with the slightest touch, I ween, 
'Twould be as it had never been, 

And leave behind no sign. 

And who were they, those five, whom Fate 
Seem'd as strange contrasts to create, 
That each might in his different state 

The others' pathways shun ? 
I tell thee that, that Infant vain. 
That Boy, that Youth, that Man of gain, 
That Grey-beard, who did roads attain 

So various, — They were One ! 

*' Monthly Magazine. 



SUCH THINGS WERE. 

I cannot but remember such things were, 
And were most precious to me ! 

Shakspeare. 

Such things were ! such things were ! 
False but precious, brief but fair ; 



PROSE AND POETRY. 509 ! 

The eagle with the bat may wed ; i 

The hare may like the tortoise tread ; 

The finny tribe may cleave the air ; 

Ere I forget that such things were. ; 

i 

Can I forget my native glen, \ 

Far from the sordid haunts of men ? I 

The willow-tree before the door ; i 
The flower-crown'd porch, the humble floor ; 

Pomp came not nigh, but peace dwelt there ; i 

Can I forget that such things were ? ! 

Can I forget that fair wan face, j 

Smiling with such a mournful grace ? '; 

That hand, whose thrilling touch met mine ; j 

Those eyes that did too brightly shine ; \ 

And that low grave, so sad, yet fair; ; 

Can I forget that such things were ? :i 

■i 

I would not change these tears, these sighs, ! 

For all Earth's proudest luxuries ; 

I would not with my sorrows part. 

For a more light, but colder heart ; \ 

Nor barter for pomp's costliest fare, i 

The memory that such things were, | 

" Monthly Magazine." ! 



510 MISCELLANEOUS 

THE HEART. 

In Imitation of Francis Quarles. 

I STOOD in the sweet Spring-time by the side 
Of a fair river, rolling wild and free ; 

Winter's cold chain had melted from it's tide, 

And on it revell'd in it's joyous pride,' 

As though no ice-touch e'er could bid it bide ; 

How like, my fond, vain Heart ! how like to thee 



I roam'd it's banks once more, 'midst Summer's blaze . 

Onward it rush'd to th' unfathom'd sea ; 
Nor stay'd to listen to the sweet bird's lays. 
Nor, calm and clear, imaged the Sun's bright rays, 
But rush'd along it's channel's devious ways ; 

How like, my headstrong Heart! how like to thee! 

I stood by that fair stream's green banks again, 
When Autumn winds were moaning sullenly ; 

The dead, sere leaves did it's bright waters stain, 

And heavy pouring floods of falling rain, 

Sweird it's full breast, and drench'd the neighbouring 
plain ; 
How like, my sad, swoU'n Heart ! how like to thee ! 

I stood again when Winter reign'd severe. 

By that stream's banks which cheerless seem'd to me : 



PROSE AND POETRY. 511 

It's once swift waves were frozen cold, and clear, 
And seem'd as they an enemy's strength could bear 5 
Yet fail'd beneath the foot that ventured there ; 

How like, my cold, false Heart ! how like to thee ! 

And shall the Seasons only when they shew 

Their darkest hues, my Heart ! thy mirror be ? 
Oh! learn Spring's mildness, Summer's strength, and 

grow 
Mature as Autumn, pure as Winter's snow, 
So shall they, when their features brightest glow, 
Be most like thee, my Heart ! be most like thee I 
" Monthly Magazine," 



MADONNA. 



Written on seeing a Painting by Carlo Dolci, in a 
Private Collection at Antwerp. 

Madonna ! sweet Madonna ! I could gaze 
For ever on that heavenly face of thine ; 

Albeit I do not worship as I praise, 

Or bend my knee devoutly at thy shrine : 
For surely there was something of divine, 

Within the wondrous pencil that portray'd 
The tender softness of those deep blue eyne^ 

That brow's wan beauty, those bright ringlets' braid, 

And the sweet Mother's smile upon those soft lips laid. 



5l2 MISCELLANEOUS 

Sure they who worship thee will be forgiven. 
Nor bear the penalty of that fond crime ; 

For in that face is less of Earth than Heaven : 
Beauty was ever worshipp'd, from the time 
That fabled Venus from the Ocean's slime 

Arose ; then well may adoration move 

Man*s breast, for one of beauty more sublime, — 

Rome's Goddess, Queen of smiles, far, far above, — 

Whose offspring was indeed a God, a God of Love I 

Madonna ! thine own rosy hour is near, 

The hour of calm, of softness, and of prayer : 
And 'tis not well that I be lingering here. 
Lest my too yielding heart that error share, 
"Which to thy shrine doth countless votaries beSr ; 
And Music too is weaving her soft spell. 

And heavenly fragrance floats upon the air, 
And feelings sad, but sweet, my bosom swell. 
And tears are in my eyes, Madonna ! Fare thee well ! 

" Parthenon." 



SONG. 

Come, pledge the cup to me, Sweetheart ! 

Oh ! pledge the cup to me ! 
And I will shew thee, ere we part, 

How Wine resembles thee. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 513 

And first, it's semblance to begin, 

I tell thee frank and free. 
There's nought on earth can make me sing, 
Save Wine, Sweetheart ! and thee ! 

Then pledge the cup to me. Sweetheart ! 

Oh ! pledge the cup to me ! 
And I will shew thee ere we part, 
How Wine resembles thee- 

This bottle's ruby as thy cheek, 
And sparkling as thine eye ; 
And, like thy fond heart, should it break, 

Then all my comforts fly : 
And when it's blissful tide I sip, 

That tide of Love and Wit, 
Methinks it is thine own sweet lip. 
Which mine's so loath to quit. 

Then pledge j^he cup to me, Sweetheart ! 

Oh ! pledge the cup to me ! 
And I will shew thee, ere we part. 
How Wine resembles thee. 

A sadder semblance is behind ! 

Ah ! Sweetheart ! thou wilt die ! 
And so the bottle's tide, we find, 

Ebbs low, which flow'd so high. 
Then, — as I'll do when I lose thee, — 

My grief and care to smother, 

z 3 



514 MISCELLANEOUS 

I'll bless it's memory, and flee 
For comfort to another ! 

Then pledge the cup to me, Sweetheart ! 

Oh ! pledge the cup to me ! 
And let's drink deeply, ere we part, 
Since Wine resembles thee. 

- *' New European Magazine." 1823. 



STANZAS. 



Suns will set, and moons will wane. 

Yet they rise and wax again ; j 

Trees, that Winter's storms subdue, , ; 

Their leafy livery renew; 

Ebb and flow is Ocean's lot ; J 

But Man lies down and rises not : \ 

Heaven and Earth shall pass away, ■ 

Ere shall wake his slumbering clay I 

Vessels but to havens steer; 1 

Paths denote a resting near ; - ^ 

Rivers flow into the main ; \ 

Ice-falls rest upon the plain ; : 
The final end of all is known; 

Man to darkness goes alone : I 

Cloud, and doubt, and mystery, i 

Hide his future destiny. I 



PROSE AND POETRY. 515 

Nile, whose waves their boundaries burst. 
Slakes the torrid desert's thirst; 
Dew, descending on the hills, 
Life in Nature's veins instils ; 
Showers, that on the parch'd meads fall, 
Their faded loveliness recall; 
Man alone sheds tears of pain, 
W«eps, but ever weeps in vain ! 

« FoRGLT Me Not." 1826. 



THOUGHTS. 



I SAW a Glow-worm on a grave, 

But it's cold hght could not scare 
Baser worms, who came to crave 
A share in the banquet there. 
And I thought of Fame, can it lighten the gloom, 
Or warm the chilliness of the tomb ? 

I gazed on Saturn's beautiful ring, 

I gazed and I marvell'd much; 
Shining a lovely but separate thing. 
Round the orb that it did not touch. 
And I thought of Hope, that shines bright and high. 
Never close, but ever nigh. 



61^ MISCELLANEOUS 

I saw the dew-drops g-emming the flowers, 

Beautiful pearls by Aurora strung ; 
But they vanish'd away in a few short hours, 
As o'er them the Sun his full radiance flung; 
And I thought of Youth's generous feelings, how soon 
They're parch'd and dried up in Manhood's noon. 

I saw a tree by a fair river's side, 

Put forth many a strong and vigorous shoot, 
But it breathed nought but pestilence far and wide, 
And it poison'd the stream, that bathed it's root. 
And I thought of Ingratitude piercing the breast, 
That has nursed it to strength, and has rock'd it to rest. 

I saw the leaves gliding down the brook, 

Swift the brook ran, and bright the sun burn'd ; 
The sere and the verdant, the same course they took, 
And sped gaily and fast, but they never return'd. 
And I thought how the years of a Man pass away, 
Threescore and ten, and then, where are they? 

" Forget Me Not." 1827. 



THE COMET. 

O'er the blue Heavens, majestic and alone. 
He treads, as treads a Monarch towards his throne ; 
Darkness her leaden sceptre lifts in vain, 
Crush'd and consumed beneath his fiery wain; 



PROSE AND POETRY. 517 

And Night's swarth cheeks, pain'd by his gazing eye, 
Blush hke Aurora's, as he passes by. 
See how the countless hosts of Heaven turn pale ! 
The blood-red cheek of Mars begins to fail ; 
Bright Berenice's shining locks grow dim; 
Orion changes as he looks on him; 
And the stern Gorgon on his brightness rests 
Her stony eyes, and lowers her snaky crests ! 
In breathless wonder hush'd, the starry choir 
Listen, in silence, to his one bold lyre; 
Save when it's lingering echoes they prolong, 
And tell to distant worlds the woncbous song ! 
And what that song whose numbers fill the ears 
With admiration of surrounding spheres? 
" Honour and adoration, power and praise. 
To Him who tracks the Comet's pathless ways ; 
Who to the Stars has their bright courses given, 
And to the Sun appoints his place in Heaven ; 
And rears for Man a mansion more sublime. 
Not built with hands, not doom'd to stoop to Time : 
Whose strong foundations, unimpair'd shall stay, 
When Suns, and Stars, and Worlds, and all things pass 
away ! " 

" Friendship's Offering." 1826. 



518 MISCELLANEOUS 



STANZAS. . 

Sing me a Lay! — not of knightly feats, 

Of honour's laurels, or pleasure's sweets ; 

Not of the brightness in Beauty's eye, 

Not of the splendours of royalty ; 

But of sorrow, and suffering, and death, let it tell 

Of the owlet's shriek, and the passing bell ; 

Of joys that have been, and have ceased to be ; 

That is the lay, the lay for me ! 

'Twine me a Wreath, — but not of the vine, 
Of primrose, or myrtle, or eglantine ; 
Let not the fragrant rose breathe there, 
Or the slender lily her white bosom bare ; 
But 'twine it of poppies, so dark and red, 
And cypress, the garland that honours the dead ; 
And ivy, and nightshade, and rosemary, 
That is the wreath, the wreath for me! 

Bring me a Robe, — not such as is worn 
On the festal eve, or the bridal morn ; 
Yet such as the great and the mighty must wear ; 
Such as wraps the limbs of the brave and the fair ; 
Such as Sorrow puts on, and she ceases to weep ; 
Such as Pain wraps round him, and sinks to sleep : 
The winding-sheet my garment shall be. 
That is the robe, the robe for me ! 



PROSE AND POETRY. 519 

Oh ! for a rest! — not on Beauty's breast, 

Not on the pillow by young Hope press'd ; 

Not 'neath the canopy Pomp has spread ; 

Not in the tent "v\-here shrouds Valour his head ; 

Where Grief gnaws not the heart, though the worm may 

feed there ; 
Where the sod weighs it down, but not sorrow, or care : 
The grave ! the grave ! the home of the free ; 
That is the rest, the rest for me ! 

*' Friendship's Otfering." 1827. 



WHAT IS LIFE ! 



Tell me what is Life, I pray ? 

'Tis a changing April day, 

Now dull as March, now blithe as May 

A little gloom, a little light, 

Nought certain but th' approacli of nigl 

At morn and evening, dew appears, 

And Life besrins and ends with tears. 



'O-" 



Yet what is Life, I pray thee tell ^ 
'Tis a varied sounding bell, 
Now a triumph, now a knell : 



520 MISCELLANEOUS 

At first it rings of hope and pleasure, 
Then, sorrow mingles in the measure. 
And then a stern and solemn toll, 
The Requiem of a parted Soul. 

Yet once again say what is Life ? 

'Tis a Tale with wonder rife, 

Full of sorrow, full of strife : 

A Tale that first enchants the ear, 

Then fills the Soul with grief and fear ; 

At last with woe bows down our heads, 

And sends us weeping to our beds. 

Still what is Life ? That insect, vain, 
Lured from the Heaven it might attain. 
To wed the glow-worm on the plain : 
Wealth, pleasure, power at distance seen, 
Shine brilliant as the glow-worm's sheen, 
Life weds these seeming glorious forms, 
And finds them blind and grovelling worms. 

Still what is Life, again declare ? 
Oh ! *tis an arch of promise fair, 
Built like the rainbow's, in the air : 
With many a charm that's quickly past, 
Many a bright hue, but none that last ; 
All vanishing, away, away, 
Ere we can say, how fair are they ! 



I 
1 

\ 

I 

PROSE AND POETRY. 521 j 

Yet what is Life ? A taper's light, ' 

That feebly glimmers through the night, 

And soon is quench'd in darkness quite : 

Each wind that spreads it's flame but hastes it, 

Each touch that trims it's splendour, wastes it ; | 

And brighter as it's lustre plays, 

Sooner it's fragile frame decays. 

" Friendship's Offering." 1827. 



TIME. 

I SAW a Child whose youthful cheek 

Glow'd with health's golden bloom. 
And light did from his young eyes break. 

And his sweet face illume : 
The Song he sang was "^ Dance ! prepare 

To tread a measure light ! " 
And his hand held a mirror, where 

The Sun was imaged bright : 
On wings as swift as Love's he flew, 

Blushing Uke morning's prime ; 
And flowers across his path he threw. 

And that Child's name was Time. 

I saw a Man, whose ample brow 
Was furrow'd deep with care ; 

And now despair, and rapture now, 
By turns were pictured there : 



522 MISCELLANEOUS 

The Song- he sang was ^' Heap and hoard, 

And scale Ambition's height," 
And his hand grasp'd a keen-edged sword 

Of majesty and might. 
Around him throng'd a numerous train, 

Wealth, Fame, and Power sublime : 
While his breast swelFd with fancies vain, 

And his name too v;as Time. 

I saw an aged, shrivell'd form, 

With hollow eyes and blind ; 
He crouch'd beneath the pelting storm. 

And shook with every wind. 
His Song was " Life's fair tree is fell'd. 

It yields before the blast ; " 
And his lean hand an hour-glass held, 

Whose sands were ebbing fast. 
Across his path dark phantoms roved, 

Of Age, and Want, and Crime, 
His wings seem'd dipt, yet swift he moved. 

And still his name was Time. 

Oh ! how Time changes ! and Man too, 

Doth with the Wizard change ; 
Borrow his every form and hue, 

And in his footsteps range : 
And now his mirror, now his sword. 

And now his hourglass seize : 
Thou fool ! why is thy mind still stored 

With trifles such as these ? 



PROSE AND POETRY. 523 



Spurn this world for a better home, 

Where his wings cannot soar ; 
Where chance and change shall never come, 

And Time shall be no more ! 

" FRiE2fDSHip's Offering." 1828. 



LOVE AND SORROW. 

Mourn not, sweet maid, and do not try 

To rob me of my Sorrow ; 
It is the only friend whom I 
Have left, 'midst my captivity, 

To bid my heart good morrow. 

I would not chase him from my heart. 
For he is Love's own brother : 

And each has learn'd his fellow's part 

So aptly, that 'tis no mean art 
To know one from the other. 

Thus Love will fold his arms, and moan, 

And sigh, and weep like Sorrow ; 
And Sorrow has caught Love's soft tone. 
And mix'd his arrows with his own, 
And learn'd his smile to borrow. 



524 MISCELLANEOUS 

Only one mark of difference they 

Preserve, which leaves them never ; 
Young Love has wings, and flies away, 
While Sorrow, once received, will stay, 
The Soul's sad guest for ever. 

" Friendship's Offeri^v^g." 1829. 



THE NATAL STAR. 

A Scene from a Manuscript Drama. 
Savon A on a Couch. Rinaldo attending him. 

Savona. Dear Rinaldo ! 

To thee these seem strange fancies, but I tell thee, 
There's not a pulse beats in the human frame, 
That is not govern'd by the Stars above us ; 
The blood that fills oui' veins, in all it's ebb 
And flow is sway'd by them, as certainly 
As are the restless tides of the salt sea 
By the resplendent Moon ; and at thy birth. 
Thy Mother's eye gazed not more steadfastly 
On thee, than did the Star that rules thy fate, 
Showering upon thy head an influence. 
Malignant or benign. 

Rinaldo. Nay, nay, Savona, 

These are but dreams : the reveries of greybeards, 
And curious schoolmen. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 5*25 

Savona. Pr'vthee, my Rinaklo, 

Unclose the casement, that my eyes may once, 
If only once, again read in that volume, 
\yhose treasured wisdom is far, far beyond 
All that the painful industry of man 
Heaps on his loaded shelves. 

[RiXALDO opens the casement. 
There, there they shine ! 
Oh ! ye bright partners of my midnight watches ! 
Ye glorious torches, by whose heavenly light 
We read the volume of futurity ! 
Ye golden sanctuaries of knowledge, safe 
And inaccessible, 'midst all the change. 
The ebb and flow of mortal accident ! 
When the vast deluge spread it's mighty wings 
Over the earth, ye track'd a path of light 
On the abyss, o'er which the hallow'd ark 
Floated in safety ; when proud Babel fell^ 
And accents strange to human ears were dropt 
From human lips, ye spake one language still. 
And told the same bright tale ; when Omar gave 
The Alexandrian wonder to the flames, 
Ye spread your ample volume o'er his head 
In broad derision ; bidding him advance 
His torches, and add fuel to his pile, 
To shrivel up your shining leaves, and melt 
The glittering clasps of gold that guarded them I 



526 MISCELLANEOUS 

Rinaldo. Savona, check this ardour ; your weak frame 
Will sink beneath it. 

Savona. Nay, my friend, 'tis vain. 

Tis written yonder. When the hand of man 
Can tear the shining planets from their spheres 
Then may he work my cure. 

Rinaldo. I behold nought 

But a bright starry night ; betokening 
Aught but disease and death. 

Savona. See'st thou yon cluster 

Of stars, that glitter right above that clump 
Of stately pines ? 

Rinaldo. I mark it steadfastly. 

Savona. And mark'st thou in the midst one Star, that 
seems 
The centre of the group? 

Rinaldo. Yes ; 'tis a Star 

Of a peculiar brightness, soft and mild 
It's light, yet beautiful as Hesper's, when 
The rest fade from him ; yet the neighbouring orbs, 
Larger, and all of gloomier disks, appear 
T' o'erwhelm it's beams ; while, station'd as it is, 
In the most stormy point of Heaven, e'en now 
On this bright night, light mists and vapours battle, 
As 'twere around it's head ; and one black cloud 
Comes sailing towards it from the north, and soon 
Will blot it from my dght. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 527 

Savona. There ! there, Rinaldo ! 

Hast thou not in those few unconscious words, 
Summ'd up Savona's life ? Was I not born 
With shining hopes, wealth, friends, and, — so 
The world said, — talents ? Did not envious Fate 
Cross my bright path ? malignant foes, false friends, 
Untoward accident, and blighted love, 
Rain misery on my head ? and am I not, 
Now, in the noontide of my life, Rinaldo, 
Stretch'd, with a broken heart, and faltering limbs, 
Upon a bed of grief, while, rapidly. 
Death, like a monster, lured from far, comes on 
To grapple with his prey ? 

Rinaldo. Alas ! alas ! 

Sorrow, indeed, has mingled in your cup 
Of Life, but sure your ills were not so strangely 
Piled higher than the common lot of man, 
To weigh you down thus soon. 

Savona. True, my Rinaldo ; 

True, not so strange ; so very strange. Crush'd hopes, 
Blighted affections, benefits forgot, 
A broken heart and an untimely grave. 
These form no wondrous tale : 'tis trite and common, 
The lot of many, most of all, of those 
Who learn to crowd into a few brief years 
Ages of feeling ; as the o'er charg'd pulse 
Throbs high, and throbs no more ! 

Rinaldo. Dear friend, I hoped 



528 MISCELLANEOUS 

Your heart had master'd it's unquiet inmates. 

I've met you at the revel, and the dance, 

And seen your brow wear that gay look, which charm'd 

All hearts in former times. 

Savona. Even so, Rinaldo ; 

But often, often is the visage masqued 
In smiles and revelry, when the heart's wounds 
Rankle the sorest ; and, when we go forth 
Into the cold and smiling world, and seem 
The gayest of the gay, we do but bear 
Our sorrows with us, as the stricken deer 
Bounds on, through j&eld and thicket, with the arrow 
That wounds it, in it's side. 

Rinaldo. Dear friend, cheer up ! 

Your malady is slight; friends, and new scenes, 
And hopes revived, and trustier, truer joys. 
Will soon work wonders. Think'st not so, Savona ? 

Savona. Look at the Star! look at the Star, Rinaldo ! 

Rinaldo. Oh Heaven ! it does, indeed, wane, and 
grow pale ! 
And that black cloud is near approaching it ! 
But this is idle, and but feeds the fancies 
That prey upon your health. I'll close the casement. 

Savona. Oh! no, no, no! for Heaven's sweet sake, 
forbear ! 
That Star gazed on my birth, and on that Star 
My dying eyes shall gaze, 

Rinaldo, But not to-night, 



PROSE AND POETRY. 529 [ 

i 
I hope, Savona. Lend me thy hand. Ha ! 

'Tis strangely hot and feverish ; but kind care, - 

And skill will work it's cure. And yet I like not j 

That black and ominous cloud. Now it comes nearer : ' 

It touches the Orb's disk. Thank Heaven ! his hand ; 

Is cooler now. It has o'erwhelm'd the Star j 

In it's black mantle ! Why am I thus moved ? ; 

I have no faith in these things, yet I dare not • 

Speak, or look at him. Ha; the cloud has pass'd i 

The bright bland orb emerges ! Dear Savona ! ; 

Laugh at your idle fears : your Star has now ' 

'Scaped all it's ills. ' 

[Turns towards hiin. 

Oh God ! so has his Spirit ! I 

Cold, cold indeed his hand ! Oh ! but to feel 

Once more that feverish glow I started from. 

Savona ! dear Savona ! — dead, dead, dead ! « 

" HoMMAGE Aux Dames." 1825. 



L' AMORE DOMINATORE. 

Who is the Monarch so mighty and bright, 
Who comes triumphing on in his chariot of light ? 
The sceptre he bears is more rich to behold. 
Than Samarcand's pearls, or Potosi's gold ; 
His coronal glitters with many a gem. 
As though Beauty's bright eyes form'd his diadem, 

2 A 



530 MISCELLANEOUS 

And his waving wings round his light form play. 
Like the rainbow's hues on a Summer's day. 

'Tis Love ! young Love, th' immortal boy, 
The child of Beauty, the parent of Joy; 
Even Gods bow down to the Lord of hearts ; 
Jove's thunder is feebler than Cupid's darts ; 
And the sword of Mars, and the sceptre of Dis, 
Have in turns been conquered and sway'd by his : 
Then lift high each voice, and set wide each gate, 
To welcome young Love to his throne of state. 

That Throne is thy heart, Oh Mistress mine ! 
Dress it in smiles from thine own bright eyne ; 
The thousands that welcome young Love to his goal ; 
Are the wishes and passionate hopes of my Soul ; 
The wings that he flies on, Oh ! this sweet kiss, 
Dearest ! is one, and the other is this ; 
And those soft lips are the rosy gate 
That leads young Love to his throne of state. 

" HOMMAGE AUX Dames." 1825. 



GOODRICH CASTLE. 

Thou sylvan Wye, since last my feet 
Wander'd along thy margin sweet, 



PROSE AxND POETRY. 531 

I've gazed on many a far-famed stream; 
Have seen the Loire's bright waters gleam ; 
Seen Arveron from his wild source gush ; 
The dull Scheldt creep, the swift Rhone msh ; 
And Arve, the proud Alps' froward child, 
Run murmuring through it's regions wild : — 

But none to my delighted eye, 

Seem'd lovelier than my own sweet Wye : 

Through meads of living verdure driven, 

'Twixt hills that seem Earth's links to Heaven ; 

With sweetest odours breathing round, 

With every woodland glory crowTi'd, 

And skies of such Cerulean hue, 

A veil of such transparent blue, 

That God's own eye seems gazing through. 

And thou, proud Goodrich ! changed and worn, 
By Time, and war, and tempest torn ; 
Still stand'st thou by that lovely stream, — 
Though past thy glory like a dream, — 
Stand'st like a monitor, to say. 
How Nature lives 'midst Art's decay ; 
Or, like a Spectre, haunting yet 
The spot where all it's joys were set. 

Time-hallow'd pile ! no more, no more, 
Thou hear'st the hostile cannon roar ; 



532 MISCELLANEOUS 

No more bold knights thy drawbridge pace^ 
To Battle, tournament, or chase ; 
No more the valiant man thy towers ; 
No more the lovely grace thy bowers ; 
Nor bright eyes smile o'er the guitar ; 
Nor the trump stirs bold hearts -to war. 

The falling meteor o'er thee shoots, 
The dull owl in thy chambers hoots ; 
Now doth the creeping ivy twine, 
Where once bloom'd rose and eglantine ; 
And there, where once in rich array 
Met lords, and knights, and ladies gay, 
The bat is clinging to the walls. 
And the fox nestles in thy halls. 

'^ Literary Souvenir." 182' 



THE CAPTIVES' SONG. 

Paraphrased from the 137 th Psalm. 

We sat us down by Babel's streams. 

And dreamt soul-sadd'ning Memory's dreams ; 

And dark thoughts o'er our spirits crept 

Of Sion, and we wept, we wept ! 

Our Harps upon the willows hung. 

Silent, and tuneless, and unstrung ; 



PROSE AND POETRY. 533 

For they "who wrought our pains and wrongs, 
Ask'd us for Sion's pleasant Songs. 

How shall we sing Jehovah's praise 
To those who Baal's altars raise ? 
How warble Judah's free-born hymns, 
With Babel's fetters on our limbs ? 
How chaunt thy lays, dear Father-land ! 
To strangers on a foreign strand ? 
Ah no ! we'll bear grief's keenest sting. 
But dare not Sion's Anthems sing. 

Place us where Sharon's roses blow, 
Place us where Siloe's waters flow ; 
Place us on Lebanon, that waves 
It's Cedars o'er our Father's graves ; 
Place us upon that holy mount, 
Where stands the Temple, gleams the fount ; 
Then love and joy shall loose our tongues 
To warble Sion's pleasant Songs. 

If I should e'er. Earth's brightest gem ! 
Forget thee. Oh Jerusalem ! 
May my right hand forget it's skill 
To wake the slumbering Lyre at ^\-ill : 
If from my heart, e'en when most gay. 
Thine image e'er should fade away, 

2 a2 



534 MISCELLANEOUS ^ 

1 

May my tongue rest within my head, i 

Mute as the voices of the dead. 1 



Remember, Oh ! remember. Lord ! 
In that day Edom's sons abhorr'd ; 
When once again o'er Salem's towers, 
The Sun of joy his radiance pours, 
Forget not them, whose hateful cry 
Rose loud and fiend-like to the sky : 
^' Be that unhallow'd City crush'd ! 
Raze, raze it even to the dust ! " 

Daughter of Babylon ! the hour 
Is coming, that shall bow thy power ; 
The Persian sword shall make thee groan, 
The Mede shall fill Belshazzar's throne ; 
Blest shall he be who bids thee sip 
The cup thou held'st to Salem's lip; 
And mocks thee, weeping o'er the stones 
Red with thy children's mangled bones.. 

'* Amulet." 1827 



STANZAS. 

Like the young Spring-buds sweet and bright, 
And like the lark, and like the light, 



PROSE AND POETRY. 535 

And like the wind, and like the wave, 
E'en such is Hope : — buds find a grave, 
The lark gives place unto the owl. 
The light must yield to darkness foul. 
The winds are fickle, waves betray, 
And Hope is falser far than they. 

And like the dew upon the thorn. 
And like the blushful break of morn, 
And like a vessel harbour'd well. 
And like a song, and like a spell. 
E'en such is man : — the dew exhales. 
The Morning's past, the vessel sails. 
The song is sweet, but swiftly flies, 
The spell is broken, — Man he dies ! 

And like the azure skies of June, 
And like the Sun, and like the Moon, 
And like a bowl, and like a smile, 
And like a taper's burning pile. 
E'en such is Life :— the changed sky rains, 
The Sun goes down, the pale Moon wanes, 
The bowl is drain'd, that smile 's the last, 
The taper 's spent, and Life is past ! 

" Amulet." 1828, 



536 MISCELLANEOUS 

MOUNT CARMEL. 

A Dramatic Sketch from Scripture History, 

Persons Represented. 

The High Priest of Baal. 

Elijah, the Prophet. 

Reuben, an Israelite. 

Miriam, his Sister. 

Attendants on Elijah, Priests, Crowd, Sfc. 

Scene, Mount Carmel. Time, near Sunset. 
Reuh. Nay, Sister, do not doubt, 
Our God will manifest his power, and shame 
Yon bold idolaters. 

Mir, I hope, yet fear ; 

For they are many, they are mighty, and 

Reuh. See, see, the High Priest doth approach the 

Prophet. 
High P. Where is thy God? What eye hath ever 
gazed 
Upon his face ? What ear hath heard his voice ? 
If there be such an one, he loves to dwell 
In darkness and obscurity ; he fears 
To meet the gaze of those who worship him. 
And, in his proud invisibility, 
Laughs at their lowly orisons. Not such 
Is he whom we adore. Behold him there ! 

[Pointing to the Su7i. 
Baal ! the great, the bright, the wonderful ! 



PROSE AND POETRY. 537 

See how lie traverses the boundless Heaven, 

The azure palace of his sovereignty; 

Answering our prayers with treasures of rich light, 

Bidding- the world on which v/e dwell, bring forth 

Herbs, fruits, and flowers, to gladden and support 

His worshippers. From morn to eve, his eye, 

With an untiring- love, is fixed on us; 

And when our feeble senses seek repose, 

Then doth he kindly veil his burning- beams, 

And bid his silver regent bathe our lids 

In a pure flood of milder, gentler light ; 

While sweet dreams glad our spirits, or deep sleep 

Rocks them to rest unbroken. 

Mir. Look, my Brother ! 

Reuben, it is indeed a glorious orb ! 
How like a God he walks the fields of Heaven ; 
Brother, I fear that he whom we adore 
Is not so great as he. 

Reub. Peace, doubting girl; 

The holy Prophet speaks. 

Elijah. Fond, impious man ! 

My God is every where ! is seen and heard 
In all created things ! I see his power 
And majesty in that resplendent orb. 
The work of his own hand, which ye adore 
In ignorance and sin ; on which I gaze 
With wonder and with humble thankfulness. 
I see his wrath and terror in the blind, 



538 MISCELLANEOUS \ 

Gold unbelief, which he permits to seal '\ 

Your senses and your hearts ; and I shall soon \ 

Behold his goodness, and his love to those. 

Who keep their Faith unspotted and unchanged, i 

When, at my prayer, his fire from Heaven shall kindle I 

The offering which I place upon his shrine. I 

But wherefore linger ye? Did ye not say ' 

That ye and I should each unto our Gods 

Raise altars, and bring offerings ; and whose God s 

Answer'd by fire from Heaven, should be acknowledged j 

The Lord above all Lords, and God indeed ? i 

Have ye not call'd upon your God since noon, ^ ; 

And has he answer'd ? Is not his bright orb | 

Fast sinking in the west, and will he not 

Soon beam his last farewell ? ^Tis now my turn j 

To try the power and goodness of the God 

Whom I adore. j 

High P. Not yet, for B'aal is angry ' 

At our imperfect rites, and he requires ; 

To be again invoked. j 

Crowd. Baal requires 

To be again invoked. 

[Here the Priests of Baal range themselves in a 
circle, and chaunt the following Incantation; 
dancing round the Altar at the end of each 
stanza, and cutting themselves with knives and 
lancets as they chaunt the last. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 539 

From thy bright throne, bow thine ear, 
Baal! Baal! hear us, hear! 
Thou who mak'st the rosy day, 
Thou Avho lend'st the lunar ray. 
Thou, at whom the stars grow pale, 
Thou, who gildest mount and vale. 
From thy bright throne, bow thine ear, 
Baal ! Baal ! hear us, hear ! 

Thou, to whom the highest Heaven 
For thy throne of power is given ; 
Thou, who mak'st the mighty sea 
The mirror of thy brightness be; 
Thou, who bidd'st th' else barren Earth 
Give wealth, and food, and beauty birth ; 
From thy bright throne, bow thine ear, 
Baal ! Baal ! hear us, hear ! 

Now thine Altar we array ; 
Now the sacrifice we slay ; 
Now his bleeding limbs recline. 
Offerings on thy hallow'd shrine ; 
Now with lancet and with knife. 
We ope our own warm tides of life. 
From thy bright throne, bow thine ear, 
Baal! Baal! hear us, hear! 

[During this Invocation^ the Sun gradually sinks 
below the horizon. 



540 MISCELLANEOUS 

j 

High P. Woe ! woe ! woe ! \ 

Leave us not, Baal ! leave us not unanswered; — 1 

Unanswer'd and in darkness ! 1 

Crowd. Woe! woe! woe! ; 

Leave us not, Baal! ! 

Elijah. Aye! howl on, howl on! .\ 

And call upon your God. Will he not answer ? ! 

Sleeps he, or is he weary, or departed i 

On some far journey, that he hears you not? i 

Are ye not here, four hundred priests of Baal, i 

And yet your many voices cannot pierce j 

His dull, cold ear? How, therefore, can I hope, 1 

Jehovah's one poor Prophet, that with these - 

My few attendants, I can make him bow ] 

His ear to my complaints. Yet I'll essay it. ! 

[To his attendants. 

Now what I bid, perform: and answer ye i 
The questions I propound. 

Let twelve stones the numbers tell 
Of the Tribes of Israel; 
Build with them an Altar straight 

To our God, the good, the great; j 

Quickly answer every one ; ; 

Is it done ? j 

Atten. 'Tisdone! 'tis done! I 
Elijah. Dig a trench the Altar round; 
On the Altar be there found 

Piles of wood; the bullock slay; j 

And on the wood his carcase lay, \ 

j 

.( 

A 



PROSE AND POETRY. 541 | 

i 
In bleeding- fragments, one by one ; ) 

Is it done ? 

Atten. 'Tisdone! 'tis done! ! 

Elijah. Fill four barrels from the rill, I 

That streams down Carmel's holy hill; 1 

Pour the water, once, twice, thrice, i 

On the wood and sacrifice, 

Till the trenches over-run; j 

Is it done ? ; 

Atten. 'Tis done! 'tis done! ■ 

Elijah. Then now, most righteous God ! what wait 

we for? 

In humbleness, and reverence have we set j 

Our offerings on thine Altar. Oh ! send down \ 

Thy fire from Heaven to kindle, and accept them ; 1 

So shall thine inward fire shine in the hearts 

Of Israel gone astray, lost in the night | 

Of dark Idolatry, and they shall know 

That Thou art Lord of Lords ! the God of Heaven ! 

\^The whole scene becomes suddeiily illuminated, and j 

a flame descending on the Altar, consumes the \ 

Sacrifice, and dries up the water in the trenches. 

Mir. Wonderful! wonderful! Jehovah! thou 
Art God indeed ! thou art the Lord of Lords ! 

Crowd. Sing, sing Jehovah's praise, for he is God! i 

He is the Lord of Lords, who reigns in Heaven! I 

2 b ' \ 



542 MISCELLANEOUS 

Reuh. See, see, Heaven opens! and the sacred fire 
Consumes the offering ! it is as though 
God stretch'd his own right arm down to the earth 
To accept the service of his worshippers. 

Elijah. The trenches are dried up ; the fire returns 
Into it's native Heaven. That last red streak 
Just glimmers faintly in the west, and now 
'Tis gone, 'tis past ! and hark ! that fearful peal ! 

[Thunder is heard. 
It is Jehovah speaks ! answer him. Say 
" Thou, thou, art Lord of Lords ! the God of Heaven !" 

Mir. Wonderful, wonderful ! Jehovah thou 
Art God indeed ! 

Crowd. Sing, sing Jehovah's praise, for he is God ! 
He is the Lord of Lords, who reigns in Heaven ! 

High P, Away ! away ! The Evil One prevails I 
The foe of Baal! 

[Elijah and the Crowd kneel before the Altar, and 
the Priests of B'dal rush out tumultuously , as 
the scene closes. 

'' Bijou." 1828. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 543 



A ROYAL REQUIEM. 

Shed the fast-falling tear o*er the tomb of the brave, 

Mourn, mourn for the offspring of Kings ! 
The sword of the valiant is sheath'd in the grave, 
The son of the mighty lies low as the slave, 
And the warm heart of honour is cold as the wave, 
And still as the ice-fetter'd springs. 

Earth's splendours and pomps, like the bright skies of 
June, 

Too often are dimm'd by a cloud ; 
Like the mild seeming halo, at Night's brilliant noon, 
That, diadem-like, gems the orb of the Moon, 
They oft' but betoken the storm that will soon 

That orb and it's brilliancy shroud. 

Then pour the Lament o'er the tomb of the brave, 

Let us mourn for the offspring of Kings ; 
For sheath'd is the sword that was bared for the right. 
Death-cold is the heart that beat warmly and light, 
And the Spirit has fled to a mansion more bright. 
And shaken Earth's stains from it's wings. 

'' Morning Chronicle." 1827, 

THE END. 



LONDON : 

MARCHANT, PRINTER, INGRAM-COURT. 



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